


Ratljóst

by versti_fantur



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Glanni secretly loves the leather breastplate though, Glanni swears a lot, Hot Air Balloon, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Use of Vegetables, Incorrect Medical Care, Kidnapping, M/M, This is a forewarning that it's gonna get dark, This is my first fanfic so idk how the hell to tag stuff, Vaguely sick!fic, and Glanni is fucked up in his own special way, Íþró's bad fashion tastes, Íþróttaálfurinn has anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23229991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versti_fantur/pseuds/versti_fantur
Summary: Íþróttaálfurinn saves a dying man, and never expected that split second decision to lead to this.or,Two idiots catch feelings, then everything goes to shit.EDIT: Hey, this fic now has a spotify playlist (or rather, it's the music i listen to when I'm writing it, but now you can listen to it too!)Here
Relationships: Glanni Glæpur/Íþróttaálfurinn
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	1. I Don't Wanna Wait Anymore I'm Tired of Looking for Answers

**Author's Note:**

> Were the first 3 chapters of this written during a 2 week long migraine? Yes.  
> Hope you enjoy! :)  
> (also if you find anything to be potentially triggering, let me know and I'll add a TW)

From his perch on the roof of some buildings, Íþróttaálfurinn took a moment to watch the sunrise, deep ambers and golds illuminating the dark dawn sky, fading to bright red and yellows as the sun appeared over the horizon. Despite the chill of the early morning air, its rays were warm and welcoming on his skin. It reminded him of watching the skies with his brothers back home, and of the paintings his mother used to make, all vivid colours and beauty. He hadn’t seen one of them in years. Not since they’d come and- No. He needn’t dwell on that, it never did him any good. Shaking his head, he leapt to his feet as his crystal rang out, and he somersaulted between buildings to find the person in trouble.

It was a mugging. He’d managed to protect the victim, but the attackers had escaped, though without any money.

“Thank you” the woman said, shakily, as Íþróttaálfurinn assessed her injuries. There were only a few bruises on her arm and a small cut on her face from where she’d been pushed to the ground, and he was fairly certain she’d be fine, if a little emotionally shaken.

“It’s no trouble,” he smiled back, before jogging away in the direction of the muggers. He still couldn’t understand why humans could be so meaninglessly violent and cruel. He’d lived amongst them for years now but he was still unable to comprehend lots of what they did. Their motives aside, he’d be damned if he didn’t catch the muggers within the hour.

——

“How the fuck did you find us” one mugger, the one with the red baseball cap, spat as Íþróttaálfurinn cuffed his hands behind his back and led him to where the others were standing.

“Yeah, what are you, some weird super tracker?” the youngest of the three piped in, his voice wavering slightly as he spoke, his bleached blond hair styled upwards in spikes. Red baseball cap lashed out with his head, trying to head butt him, but only succeeded in knocking Íþróttaálfurinn’s hat to the floor.

“What the fuck??” Blue tracksuit mugger yelled, noticing the pointed elf ears first. “What the fuck are you?”

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed, and after securing the three of them to a lamppost temporarily, he picked up his hat and settled it back on his head, ensuring it covered his ears and subtly checking that the crystal was still intact. Revealing his true self to criminals was never particularly high on his agenda, and he avoided it whenever possible. It was highly doubtful that these three would keep quiet, though, which was worrying. His fears were confirmed as he dragged them into the police station, and he handed them over to the staff there.

“He ain’t fuckin human! Look at him!” Spiky hair shouted, trying to point with his hands still tied behind his back.

“He’s a fuckin elf!” Blue tracksuit added, struggling against his restraints as he was led into a cell. Red baseball cap had fallen surprisingly silent, which worried Íþróttaálfurinn more. One never knew what these criminal types were thinking, and that could be dangerous, even with petty thieves such as these. It was difficult to judge exactly how much they were capable of until they’d done it, and by then it was usually too late. But now they knew all about the great Íþróttaálfurinn’s little secret. He knew full well how humans treated hidden folk, and if word got around that he was- No. No one in their right mind would believe these three. He had nothing to worry about. Right? He pushed all thoughts of what had happened to his eldest brother out of his mind, and tried to focus on being happy that he’d caught these criminals, and done his job.

After signing off some paperwork, he left the police station with a surprising lack of flipping or cartwheeling, a sense of unease sitting heavily in his stomach. Forcing himself into a jog, he headed for the nearest park, and ran laps upon arrival to clear his head. He had nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. If he just concentrated on breathing regularly, and listening to the sounds of his feet hitting the pavement

He kept running until his muscles burned and screamed at him to stop, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Eventually his legs went numb and he had to grab a nearby bench to avoid falling to the ground, but still he worried. It only took a few minutes before his legs returned to normal, but he couldn’t bring himself to move; despite telling himself over and over that he was ok and nothing would happen, his brain wouldn’t listen. For once he was thankful when his crystal rang out again, sending him to be the hero again, so that he could forget about, well, everything else.

Instead of the usual minor crime or misdemeanour, or accident, what Íþróttaálfurinn saw in his crystal this time horrified him. The vision was hazy, but there was blood, oh gods, so much blood, and a man kneeling on the ground, being held up by two thugs, and surrounded by others. Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t tell if the man was dead, he just hoped he could get there fast enough to stop anything worse from happening.

——

There was blood in his mouth and a knife at his throat and he was on his knees in an abandoned multi-storey car park. Which meant it was just another Tuesday afternoon for Glanni. Granted, this particular Tuesday afternoon was a _little_ rougher than usual, and he hadn’t anticipated he’d lose quite this much blood. Or that he’d die surrounded by a dozen or so knife wielding thugs. Oh and he was pretty sure at least one of his ribs were broken. But it’d be fine. He would be fine. He was always fine in the end. Right?

His head was still reeling from whatever drugs the gang had used to knock him out, and so his attempts to formulate a plan of escape weren’t developing as quickly as he would have hoped. Someone was shouting now. He couldn’t make out the words, or even the language, but it was loud and probably directed at him and his ears hurt and he wasn’t sure how long he could retain consciousness. He still had blood in his mouth. The knife at his throat began to cut deeper. If he moved it would kill him. He briefly registered a voice in the back of his head - he didn’t want to die. He could’ve laughed at that. What choice did he have in the matter now?

Then suddenly the knife was gone and there was more shouting. Someone screamed and Glanni didn’t know if it was him or not. A yellow blur. The gang that had surrounded him were gone. Running. The cold, hard concrete rushing up to meet him. Hands. Strong hands. Catching him before he hit the floor. More talking. Yellow. And then black.

——

Íþróttaálfurinn‘s hands were covered in blood. There was a dying man in front of him and his hands were covered in blood and his training had _not_ prepared him for this and oh gods what should he do now? He should probably compress the wounds but how could he without strangling the man? He briefly wondered how far away the nearest hospital was, before dismissing the thought. His balloon was closer, and he had medical supplies there too, so he scooped up the man as gently as he could, and began to jog there, trying not to jostle him about too much and exacerbate his injuries. Aside from the occasional groan or whimper, the man was silent, and Íþróttaálfurinn was glad that he was unconscious, as he’d probably hurt a hell of a lot more when he woke up.

Had he been paying attention, he would have noticed the strange looks from strangers as he ran through the streets covered in blood, but that wasn’t his priority right. As soon as he reached the balloon, he set the man down on the soft grass and set up his bed, which he admittedly didn’t use often, before lifting the man onto it. He hesitated a moment before unzipping the man’s clothes, feeling like he was invading his privacy, but he knew he’d have to assess the damage sooner or later, and so he peeled the man’s black catsuit off his torso and arms. His face paled at the sight; a deep cut near the top of his chest, which was spilling blood down over the bruises that littered the man’s rib cage, some old and fading, others recent, their purples and blues staining pale skin. The ones at his collarbone seemed the oldest, and Íþróttaálfurinn could see bite marks among them. If he’d felt like he was overstepping his boundaries before, staring at the man’s hickeys was taking it even further, so he averted his eyes to the newer ones, that appeared to be inflicted with a large, blunt weapon. Íþróttaálfurinn reached out to touch the largest, one so large it horrified him, blossoming across almost the entirety of the man’s left side, mostly on his ribs, but as he did so, the man flinched. Ah. So his ribs were possibly broken. Great. Since he couldn’t see any more blood on the man’s legs, he decided against removing the catsuit fully, not wanting to expose the man any more than he had to, so as to preserve his dignity. The ribs he could deal with later, but he had to stop the bleeding. Dousing his hands liberally with hand sanitiser, followed by antiseptic cream for good measure, Íþróttaálfurinn used some antibacterial wipes to remove most of the blood, then, as gently as he could, poured some rubbing alcohol over it. The man flinched again, though still wasn’t conscious as Íþróttaálfurinn threaded a suturing needle and began to sew the wound closed. It took a while, as his hands kept shaking, and he didn’t want to hurt the man accidentally, but eventually it was done, and he secured it with some gauze. From what he could see, the cut on his throat wasn’t as deep, so he just cleaned it and bandaged it. There wasn’t much else he could do until the man woke up, and so he sat back against the side of the basket, and hoped what he’d done would be enough.

——

The first thing Glanni realised was that he wasn’t dead. Which was actually a pleasant surprise, given the last situation he’d been in. The second thing was that he was shirtless in someone’s bed, which was more surprising, if he was being honest. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to go from almost being killed to sleeping with someone, but weirder things had happened before, he supposed. The third thing was the man staring at him. Shit. He was vulnerable and injured and that man looked like he could snap Glanni in half with his pinkie, so he did the only thing he could think of. He ran. Or rather, he tried to run, but as he sat up his ribs (and his actual voice) screamed in pain and he fell into a heap next to the bed.

“Hey, no, don’t do that! You’ll rupture your stitches” the man exclaimed, jumping over to help Glanni up again and back onto the bed. His tone was caring and worried, but Glanni still eyed him suspiciously, shrinking back from the stranger’s touch. “You’re probably confused, and I’ll explain everything, I promise, but you have to stay still, okay?” He produced some more pillows from somewhere and propped Glanni up against them gently, so he could sit up without injuring himself further.

“Who are you? Why are you helping me?” Glanni spoke slowly, his voice low, and his throat disliking the effort of talking.

“I’m Íþróttaálfurinn” the man, _Íþróttaálfurinn_ , smiled warmly, “and it’s my job to help.”

“Yes but why are you helping _me_? Don’t you know who I am?” Glanni was fully aware of how diva-ish that sounded but he didn’t care, he probably was a diva by most people’s definition anyway.

“No, I don’t,” Íþróttaálfurinn frowned, “should I?”

“Yes.” Came the stilted reply.

“So who are you?” Íþróttaálfurinn leant closer, studying the man’s face for any clues, but found none aside from a growing sense of smugness.

“Glanni Glæpur.” He purred, smirking as he spoke.

Íþróttaálfurinn‘s face paled. Glanni Glæpur? As in the infamous criminal who’d poisoned an entire town? He should, by all accounts, take him to jail right now, but he doubted Glæpur would last that long in there, not with his injuries the way they were.

“Okay.” He said eventually, and Glanni frowned, having anticipated more of a response. “You’re still going to stay here and recover.” he added.

“What, you still want to help me even though you know who I am?” Glanni replied incredulously, and Íþróttaálfurinn nodded. “Don’t go acting all altruistic though, you’ve still got me half naked in your bed.” He added, and Íþróttaálfurinn blushed, looking away from Glanni.

“I’m sorry, I had to do it so I could treat your wounds” he said sheepishly, looking like he’d been caught doing something naughty. “I kept your trousers on so it wouldn’t be too awkward for you.” Glanni wanted to laugh; the people he usually associated with held no regard for ‘decency’ or ‘modesty’. But then he realised:

“Wounds?” He looked down and finally registered the dull throbbing in his chest was, in fact, a deep cut that had been neatly bandaged up. He didn’t need to see it to know there was another cut on his throat, that one hurt like a bitch enough already.

“You also might have broken your ribs, so I’ll need to check those over when you feel comfortable enough” Íþróttaálfurinn pointed at the giant bruise. ‘Ugh,’ Glanni thought ‘was he always this _nice?_ ’

“Fine, do it now” Glanni sighed, leaning further back into the pillows and looking upwards. Wait. Where the fuck was he? And was that a fucking hot air balloon? Panic surged through him again, and he sat up instantly, almost crashing into Íþróttaálfurinn. “Where the fuck am I?” He growled, sounding far less scared than he felt.

“Oh, sorry, uh, this is my balloon. I live here.” Íþróttaálfurinn said, as if that were a real answer.

“Who the hell lives in a hot air balloon?” Glanni snapped back.

“Me?” Íþróttaálfurinn frowned again. “Did you want me to see to your ribs now, or...?” He trailed off and Glanni rolled his eyes and sank back into the pillows. If this was some weird dream he might as well enjoy it whilst he could, it wasn’t like he slept much anyway.

“Go ahead.” He flinched when Íþróttaálfurinn touched his side. “Fuck, you’re cold!”

Íþróttaálfurinn immediately retracted his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, just fix my ribs.” Glanni replied, bracing himself this time.

“Let me know of it hurts too much” Íþróttaálfurinn said, and he smiled again, all hopeful and kind and Glanni should not like that smile as much as he did.

To say it hurt a lot was an understatement. The second Íþróttaálfurinn‘s fingertips touched the first fractured rib, it took all Glanni’s energy to keep from screaming. Instead, he whimpered and honestly he wished he’d actually screamed; it would’ve been less embarrassing. The rib below it seemed to be broken too, but the others seemed fine. Íþróttaálfurinn insisted on checking all of them, despite Glanni’s protests, and it seemed like his hands had been all over Glanni’s chest before he declared him to be “mostly okay”.

“I have some painkillers that should help,” Íþróttaálfurinn said as he stood up and walked away, towards a box of what Glanni presumed were medical supplies. “I’ve got ibuprofen, paracetamol, aspirin, and some others, which would you prefer?” Glanni bit back his instinctual response of ‘all of them, plus whiskey’.

“Any, all, whichever will stop me feeling like shit” Glanni groaned and Íþróttaálfurinn gave him a sympathetic look, before handing him four pills and a glass of water. He swallowed them, cringing a little at the taste, and handed the glass back to Íþróttaálfurinn, his head beginning to ache. “I sincerely hope you didn’t just roofie me.” Íþróttaálfurinn looked shocked at the accusation.

“Glanni, I would never-“

“Oh, were on a first name basis already are we?” He laughed, voice still raspy, “And I’m joking. You’re too nice to do that.” Íþróttaálfurinn smiled again, and Glanni ignored the small flip his stomach did. He was Glanni fucking Glæpur, he did _not_ get feelings like that.

“I suppose I don’t really have a last name, so you’d have to call me Íþró for it to have the same effect.” Íþróttaálfurinn said after a moment, having turned around to busy himself with a bag of something.

“Who doesn’t have a last name?” Glanni thought aloud, though it lacked his usual, vaguely mocking tone. “Never mind”. The man was strange enough, what with his outfit and balloon home and everything. “Íþró” he tried out the word, letting it roll off his tongue slowly. Íþróttaálfurinn shivered, and instantly hoped Glanni hadn’t seen it.

“I didn’t have parents. Not for long anyway. I worked in coal mines as a child. The only name they gave me is the one I have now. If I had any other I don’t remember it.” He said softly, and Glanni shouldn’t have felt sorry for him, shouldn’t have felt angry, shouldn’t have cared that much at all, but he did and he didn’t understand why.

“Who the fuck makes a kid work in a mine…” was the only answer he could give, and Íþró shrugged. Glanni wanted to reach out and comfort him, hug him or something, but he didn’t.

“You should get some rest,” Íþró said after a minute or two of silence, “It’ll help you heal faster.” He bent down to get something out of the bag again, and poured it into a cup, adding some water. “Drink this, it’ll help you sleep.” He passed it to Glanni, who looked at it warily, before taking a small sip and grimacing.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Just drink it.” Íþró smiled as Glanni rolled his eyes, and swallowed the whole glass in a couple of gulps. He was dimly aware of Íþró’s eyes on him as he fell asleep, too quickly to wonder how the hell he knew they were blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live comments and kudos :)
> 
> Also I'm highkey sorry about the muggers' dialogue. It's terrible and I'm fully aware of that xD
> 
> Title from My Silver Lining by First Aid Kit


	2. You Shine Like Silver in the Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone freaks out because feelings. Also they go shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 hates my British spelling so I've changed some but not all because who can be bothered really?
> 
> Also here's a forewarning updates probably won't be consistent, but I'll try my best :)

It was too early for Íþróttaálfurinn to go to sleep yet, but he could hardly go back into the city, not with Glanni in this state. He let his gaze linger on the man as he slept, watching the slow rise and fall of his still exposed chest and subconsciously syncing his own breaths with it. He should really do something about that; looking at Glanni like that made him feel things he knew he shouldn’t, so he found some blankets and laid them out on top of Glanni, careful they wouldn’t not press too heavily on his injured ribs, before assuming his previous position against the basket wall. His mind wandered back to the bruises on Glanni’s skin and he frowned, remembering an old recipe for a salve in one of his old books. Flipping outside of his balloon onto the grass, he rifled through one of his storage boxes until he found the right one. The page was bookmarked, and he opened it carefully, so as to not rip the fragile paper. It required some herbs and plants that he knew grew in the general area, and so he set the book down in the basket, and, after checking Glanni was still sound asleep, took off at a sprint towards the woods.

The wind against his face was soothing, as were the trees, as they whispered to him, trying to entice him with promises of secrets but he ignored them, well accustomed to their manipulative nature. He was fairly certain this was a fae wood, but as it was so close to the city, he doubted it would be particularly aggressive, lest the humans become suspicious. It didn’t take him long to gather the herbs, the majority being a large bunch of arnica, though he made sure to ask permission from each plant before he took them, in elvish of course, he could hardly expect a plant to understand human languages. 

Before long he was back at his balloon, where Glanni hadn’t moved at all. Thankfully. Despite the fact the drink he’d given him would keep him asleep for at least 12 hours, and that his injuries would have prevented it anyway, Íþróttaálfurinn had been a little paranoid that he would’ve somehow managed to run away. He sat down again and with a pestle and mortar, and began to grind the herbs together, adding a touch of water to make it more paste-like, before tying a cloth around it and setting it out of the way.

He hadn’t realised it was getting dark until he looked up to check on Glanni, and saw he could barely make out his sleeping form in the dusk light. Flipping out of the basket again, he settled down on the grass to sleep, watching the stars begin to twinkle overhead. With all the events of the afternoon, he’d almost forgotten his earlier worries, but as he drifted to sleep, he felt the same anxious weight in his stomach, and his rest was plagued with dreams.

He woke with a shout 6 hours later, his heart racing and his blood filled with adrenaline as the remnants of his nightmare faded away. The sky was still dark, but Íþróttaálfurinn knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep again, both his mind and his body were too restless for that. After checking he hadn’t accidentally awoken Glanni, he stood, and began to exercise to release the nervous energy from his muscles. 

Jogging a vague distance from the balloon, he dropped down into some one armed push-ups, then springing himself into a handstand and walking around like that for a few minutes, before doing push-ups like that too. Several back handsprings later, his hands wet from the dewy grass, he cartwheeled his way back to the balloon, flipping a few times for good measure. It still wasn’t quite dawn yet, but it was never too early to start preparing a healthy breakfast, especially since Glanni would probably be waking up soon too, as the drink would be wearing off by now. 

He assumed Glanni may not be the type to enjoy fruit salad first thing in the morning, so he found some plain Greek yogurt, and poured it into a bowl, mixing in some honey and adding a spoonful of jam on top for extra sweetness. He contemplated whether Glanni would appreciate some berries with his yogurt, and sprinkled a few blueberries he’d picked in the woods over the bowl, deciding against arranging them a smiley face. Behind him, Glanni began to stir, and he turned to watch as the other man’s eyes flickered open and took in his surroundings.

“Good morning!” Íþróttaálfurinn smiled as Glanni’s focused on him and frowned.

“So it wasn’t all just a dream,” he yawned, voice thick from sleep, “and you really do live in a hot air balloon.”

“Yes, I do,” Íþró laughed, walking over to the bed and rearranging the pillows so Glanni could sit up comfortably. “And I made you breakfast!” He held out the bowl and Glanni took it, staring at the contents like it might bite him.

“What is this? Don’t you have coco pops?”

“What are coco pops?” Íþró tilted his head to the side in confusion, and Glanni rolled his eyes.

“They’re chocolate puffy cereal things.” Glanni made a vague gesture as if that explained anything.

“Who eats chocolate for breakfast? It’ll give you no energy whatsoever!” Íþró laughed, before realising Glanni wasn’t joking. “Just eat it, it’s probably sweet enough for you anyway.” He held it a spoon and Glanni reluctantly took it and scooped up some yoghurt, making a face as he ate some.

“It’s not... disgusting...” He eventually said, and Íþró beamed, considering that a win. He backflipped to where he’d laid out his own breakfast - an apple, satsuma, and a few grapes, and tossed the grapes into the air, catching them in his mouth. He almost choked as he heard Glanni mumble “show off”.

Though as his back was turned, he felt something small hit his neck, and again, followed by a snigger from Glanni. He whipped round, but the man was sat still, the picture of innocence eating his yogurt, so Íþró resumed the peeling of his satsuma. Then another projectile hit him, this time on the head. He spun round and caught Glanni mid-throw, blueberry in hand. Ducking, he caught the berry in his mouth, and jumped back to Glanni’s bedside, plucking another blueberry from his bowl, before holding it up to Glanni’s mouth.

“Eat it.”

Glanni pursed his lips and shook his head.

“It’s a blueberry, it’s good for you, see?” Íþró took another blueberry from the bowl and ate it, licking his lips with a now slightly-purple stained tongue. Glanni opened his mouth to speak, and Íþró seized the opportunity to push the blueberry between his lips.

“You _dick_!” Glanni exclaimed after swallowing it, and Íþró burst into giggles. Glanni moved to swat him, but the movement pulled on his stitches and he yelped. Íþró immediately stopped laughing, and pulled down the blankets to see the bandages. There was blood on them but it was old and dried. That was a good sign. Probably.

“I’ll need to change these soon,” he gestured at the bandages, then remembered the salve. “I’ve also made something that’ll help reduce your bruising, if you want that?” Glanni nodded and turned back to his yogurt, scraping the bowl with the spoon to get all of it. Íþró gathered his supplies and changed the dressings deftly, taking extra care around Glanni’s throat so as not to choke or strangle him.

“This might be a little cold” he warned as he opened the jar of salve, and Glanni shrugged.

“I’m already cold lying here with my tits out” he said dryly and Íþró stifled a laugh. The salve made his hands tingle a bit, and he gently began rubbing it into Glanni’s torso, especially careful around his injured ribs, but Glanni still winced at the contact. He hesitated before moving up to Glanni’s collarbone, where the bruises changed to hickeys and bites.

“Should I…” He trailed off, not knowing if the other man wanted to keep them.

“What? Oh.” Glanni looked down and realised what Íþró meant. “Sure, whatever.”

——

“Who was she?” Glanni hadn’t really been paying attention, but Íþró‘s words snapped him back to the present.

“Huh?”

“The one who gave you these.” Íþró pointed at the hickeys he was currently covering in salve, and Glanni pointedly ignored the pleasant feeling of Íþró‘s skin against his. Wait. Íþró said _she_? Glanni snorted.

“I barely remember his face,” Glanni said after a moment, still laughing “let alone his name.” Íþró shook his head, chuckling, and Glanni crushed the warmth that curled in his chest at the sound.

“You said you were cold.” Íþró suddenly pulled back, and Glanni missed the contact immediately.

“No shit, we’re in the middle of a field!” He tried to pull the blankets up to his chin again but Íþró stopped him, saying something about how the salve had to dry first. Glanni ignored him and closed his eyes, but found himself not tired. That was... unusual...

“How long was I asleep?” He interrupted Íþró, who was still explaining how the salve worked.

“About 12, 12 and a half hours. Why?” Íþró replied, as if that wasn’t a big deal.

“What? How?” He exclaimed, sitting up rapidly, despite his ribs protesting the sudden strain. He hadn’t slept for more than three or four hours at a time for as long as he could remember. “You _did_ roofie me!”

“No! I told you last night, I gave you a drink to help you sleep, so you could heal,” Íþró looked quite upset at the accusation, and Glanni was really getting sick of the twinges of affection and guilt happening in his chest. “It was only herbs and flowers mixed into water, I apologise if you feel I deceived you.” His face had fallen, and even his moustache seemed to droop, and Glanni had to put a stop to this right now.

“Stop, no, chill out-” He reached out without thinking and grabbed Íþró‘s hand, then freaked out in his head and didn’t know what to do with it, so he just held it tightly. He was only doing that to calm Íþró down. He definitely wasn’t doing it because he wanted to hold his hand. No way.

Íþró hadn’t expected Glanni’s hand to feel as nice as it did around his own, and anything else he was going to say died on his lips. Instead, he stared at their hands, and then down at the man in his bed. He was probably kidding himself, but he could’ve sworn he saw a flicker of _something_ in Glanni’s grey eyes. But then Glanni pulled his hand back, and the moment was gone. Íþró stepped backwards and attempted to busy himself with the contents of the boxes again, and Glanni allowed himself to steal furtive glances at Íþró back.

“I should probably get you some clothes; that catsuit is beyond saving... I can run into the city soon to get you something.” Íþró said, several long, awkward minutes later, and Glanni pulled a face of disgust.

“Hell no, not with _your_ fashion sense.” He glared pointedly at Íþróttaálfurinn’s own outfit, and Íþró frowned.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” He looked down at his yellow shirt and leather breastplate in confusion. He always thought he looked rather nice; warm and unthreatening. Glanni, however, rolled his eyes.

“Everything.” He ignored Íþró‘s indignant huff, and continued, “If you’re going to the city I’ll come too.”

“No.” Íþró replied, shaking his head, “You’re staying here. And you’d run off if I let you out of my sight.” That was… a good point. But Glanni wasn’t about to back down that easily.

“What if I just ran off as soon as you left the balloon, huh? Surely it’s better if I go with you, just so I definitely don’t leave.” He raised an eyebrow, challenging Íþró.

“Fine, but you’ll have to wear this, otherwise people will get suspicious about your throat.” He undid a sunshine yellow cape/scarf _thing_ from around his neck, and tied it around Glanni’s, draping it in front of his shoulder to cover where the ripped fabric and most of the bloodstains would be on the catsuit. Glanni sighed dramatically, but, he supposed, the hideous scarf was worth it if it meant he could choose his own clothes. He touched his side, checking the salve had dried, and sat up, pulling on his catsuit, which thankfully wasn’t tight enough to put pressure on his ribs. Íþró adjusted the scarf again, and helped Glanni to his feet. 

As much as he loved his high heeled boots, he acknowledged they weren’t the smartest choice of shoes for a long walk into the city, but he couldn't change them now, so he balanced on unsteady legs and kept holding onto Íþró. Without warning, the other man swept Glanni up into his arms and jumped out of the basket, sprinting across the fields towards the city. They’d traveled over a kilometre before Glanni regained the ability to scream.

——

Íþró eventually slowed down a few blocks away from the main street, gently setting Glanni down again and ignoring the string of cursing from the man’s mouth. He readjusted the scarf again, before linking Glanni’s arm through his own.

“What are you doing?” Glanni asked, his voice hoarse from the screaming, and Íþró bit back a laugh.

“It’s so you can lean on me to walk without it being too obvious you’re injured.”

Glanni mumbled something that Íþró couldn’t quite catch, but didn’t let go. Together they walked to the main shopping district, and Íþró let Glanni take the lead. The man clearly had eclectic tastes, and Íþró found himself carrying a worryingly large pile of clothing in the very first shop. He followed Glanni into the changing rooms but was ordered to wait outside the cubicle because

“I don’t need you perving on me!”

He sat down on the uncomfortable “stylish” chair, which was more of a solid red cube than any real form of furniture, and bounced his leg up and down whilst waiting for Glanni to emerge. His first outfit was... not that bad, considering the heaps of different colours and patterns that had been in the clothing pile. Some extremely tight fitting black faux leather trousers and a black polo neck, underneath a blush pink princess cut coat, which flared out over the hips in a vintage style. Glanni had accentuated the look with a burgundy fedora-like hat with a wide brim. 

It should’ve looked strange, the blending of modern and vintage, masculinity and femininity, but it was so quintessentially _Glanni_ that Íþró grinned his approval. Not that it meant much, since he had absolutely 0 knowledge of fashion, but Glanni seemed pleased that he liked it.

“If you want I can go and buy those now, so you can wear them as we leave?” He offered, and Glanni looked at him, perplexed at the offer.

“What do you mean? I’ve got all this other stuff to try on first.” He gestured to the large pile of clothes on the floor of the cubicle, and Íþró rolled his eyes.

“I agreed to one outfit, not a whole new wardrobe.” Íþró replied, trying and failing to keep the smile off his face. Glanni pouted, but relented, undressing behind the curtain and handing Íþró the clothes so he could pay. Íþró wasn't hugely familiar with human currency, so just handed over his credit card to the cashier without really understanding the meaning of the price, though by the looks of things, Glanni had expensive tastes. He carried the bag back to Glanni, looking away as the curtain parted and a pile of clothes was dumped in his hands. 

Shaking his head, he took them to the assistant, who took them without looking away from her phone, and after he didn’t immediately leave, she gestured for him to leave her alone. He jogged back to the uncomfortable cube just as Glanni dramatically threw open the curtain and sauntered out, immediately grabbing Íþró’s arm to steady himself.

As they exited the shop, Íþró noticed a pair of sunglasses had found their way onto Glanni’s face, and he knew he certainly hadn't bought them. He frowned at the other man.

“What?” Glanni laughed, “They suit me!”

Íþró held out his hand expectantly, and Glanni stared at it with disdain, before sighing “ _Fine_ ” and handing them over. Íþró steered them back into the shop and apologised before giving them back to the sales assistant, who looked fairly confused at the whole ordeal.

Back outside again, they continued to saunter past the shops, Glanni occasionally insisting they go into one, and fawning over items of clothing until Íþró eventually caved and bought them. It wasn't even like he needed the money, he survived mainly off things he gathered from the woods and countryside, rarely shopping, and never on sprees such as this. He was surprised to find himself actually enjoying it, though he couldn't tell if the enjoyment was derived from the shopping itself, or from the look of happiness that had settled over Glanni’s tired features, making his face radiant. 

A gasp of excitement drew Íþró from his thoughts as they passed a makeup shop, Glanni practically dragging him through the door. Realistically he knew he shouldn't be buying Glanni all these things. It went against all police protocol to buy presents for criminals. Although _technically_ , he wasn't actually police; he just assisted them. And he doubted there were any rules in the Elven order against this, as long as he wasn't causing harm they wouldn't care.

“Íþró, you got that magic card of yours?” Glanni called to him from the counter, where he’d just unloaded his armful of makeup in front of the poor cashier. He jogged over, resisting the urge to backflip in such an enclosed space, and swiped the card.

“You two got a special event coming up?” The cashier asked, a friendly smile on her face. _Too friendly_ for Glanni’s liking, especially since her gaze was lingering on Íþró. Wait, was he feeling _possessive_?? Why?? Well, it couldn’t hurt to toy with the cashier, _Katie_ , her name badge read.

“Oh yes, _very special_.” he purred, leaning on the counter and turning his head to not so subtly check out Íþró, who was completely oblivious, before looking back at _Katie_ , smirking as her face reddened, having realised Glanni’s meaning. She ducked her head and scanned the rest of the items quickly, handing over the bag without meeting his eyes. This time as they exited the shop, Íþró‘s crystal began to ring, and he thrust the bags into Glanni’s hands before pausing and pulling his handcuffs from his pocket, attaching one to Glanni’s wrist.

“Kinky,” Glanni smirked, glancing at the cuff on his wrist, and then back to Íþró, who’d attached the other side to his own arm. “But what the fuck is that?”

“No time to explain, jump on.” Íþró crouched, his face suddenly deadly serious, and Glanni’s eyes widened at what he was being asked to do. The sheer indecency if it! But before he could complain, he was upon Íþró‘s back and trying not to yell from the pain in his ribs as be bounced up and down with Íþró‘s long strides.

After saving a toddler from being hit by a car, and returning him to his sobbing parents, and avoiding a traffic accident, all whilst Glanni clutched at his shoulders like they were the only constant thing in the universe, Íþró finally slowed to a walk, setting Glanni down on a nearby bench.

Glanni looked pointedly at him, and then the crystal hanging from his hat, with an expression that was somewhere between ‘what the fuck’ and ‘how dare you throw me around like a sack of potatoes’.

“It, uh, rings when someone’s in trouble” He explained awkwardly, and Glanni frowned in thought.

“What, like its connected to police scanners? No, they wouldn’t detect things like that baby, or me being stabbed either...” He stared at Íþró intently, waiting for an answer.

“Uhh...” He really didn't want to be having this discussion. “I have operatives that signal it when they see crimes taking place.” he lied, and it tasted bitter on his tongue.

“Bullshit.” A passing couple with several children glared at them thanks to Glanni’s choice of language, but he ignored them. “Don’t lie to me” he added in a slightly softer voice, and Íþró couldn’t tell if it was an act or not.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, at least, not yet.” He hoped Glanni wouldn’t push it, and thankfully, the other man remained silent. He reached into his pocket again to find the key to unlock the handcuffs, and let out a small “oh” of surprise.

“What” Glanni jangled the cuffs between them, and a sheepish look appeared on Íþró‘s face.

“I may or may not have left the keys back at the balloon.”

Glanni groaned in frustration, and let his face fall in his hands, before remembering that Íþró was still attached to one of said hands, and was millimetres from accidentally poking him in the eye. After pulling his offending hand away, Íþró saw a glimmer of something sparkle in Glanni’s eyes. Oh no. He was planning something, wasn't he?

“Well I’m not cutting short my shopping trip just because of _you_.” He smirked and stood up, linking his fingers with Íþró‘s so their hands were clasped together, before sauntering off, and pulling Íþró behind him.

——

_It’s fine, totally fine,_ Glanni kept telling himself, _you’re holding his hand to annoy him, and for balance. You’re not doing it because you like it, you hear me? You’re not enjoying holding his hand._

He repeated it like a mantra in his head as they walked, neither of them speaking, but the silence didn't feel awkward. Glanni couldn’t deny that it had been impressive when Íþró had done his whole, _hero shtick_ or whatever, but he hadn't really paid much attention to what Íþró was saving, focusing more on the man’s muscles moving beneath his hands as he held on tightly, because, from what he could gather, Íþró was _heckin ripped_. 

He was comfortable with acknowledging that fact, since physical attraction and sex weren't exactly strangers to him, and maybe, if he thought about it hard enough, he could trick himself into thinking that was all it was - straight up physical attraction. Nothing else. Because he definitely didn't think about the way Íþró‘s eyes crinkled when he smiled, or how he tugged at his moustache when he was confused, or that the way he said Glanni’s name in that glorious accent of his, or- Oh fuck. Desperate to leave the thoughts in his head behind, he began to speak as they walked.

“So do you have a razor back at your balloon, or running water for that matter?” He asked, handing the shopping bags back to Íþró, before feeling his chin with his free hand, which was scratchy and covered in stubble.

“No to the first one, and I usually get water from the river nearby. It’s clean enough to drink and wash with.” Íþró replied, and Glanni tried, he really did, to not think about the other man washing in a river, but it was to no avail.

“How do you trim your mustache then?” Glanni asked after pushing those thoughts away and realising the strangeness of Íþró‘s statement.

“Oh uh, it doesn't really grow very fast.”

Glanni wasn’t entirely sure if he believed him, but then again, there were a lot of odd things about the man, and in the grand scheme of things, Íþró's mustache grooming habits weren't that strange. He allowed himself to relax as they continued to shop, which was a rarity for him, but he was enjoying himself, and he’d never been one to purposefully deny himself of things he liked.

It didn’t take long before Glanni dragged Íþró into another shop, having decided that since all the food Íþró owned was healthy, he was going to eat all the sugar he could _right now_. Much to Íþró’s dismay, he’d selected the most expensive-looking bakery he could find, with macarons of all colours piled high in the window, with mirror glazed cakes and copious amounts of chocolate. The almost predatory smile that crept onto Glanni’s face as he took in the sight was fairly alarming, ( _Not sexy. Definitely not sexy._ ) and Íþró tried to steer him away in the direction of a far less threatening cafe, but Glanni was stronger than he looked, especially when cake was involved, and Íþró found himself dragged towards it, the handcuffs digging into his wrist and Glanni’s grip on his hand just _slightly_ too tight to be comfortable, leaving him with no way of escape from the sugary hell.

The smell of cinnamon and icing was overpowering, even before they stepped through the door, and Íþró barely managed to avoid physically recoiling in shock. He awkwardly followed Glanni to the counter, and avoided eye contact with the cashier by glancing rapidly around the small shop. By the time Glanni had ordered presumably the entire display of pastries and cake, Íþró needed to sit down. His head spun and his stomach threatened to forcibly remove his breakfast, but as long as he breathed shallowly, he should be able to not throw up. Hopefully. 

Glanni had taken the seat opposite him to wait for his food to be brought over to them, their hands, which were still linked together, lay on the table, and to anyone watching, it probably appeared they were on a date. _Ha, what an entirely laughable concept; as if I’d ever go on a date! Especially with this idiot_ Glanni’s internal monologue nervously laughed. 

Meanwhile, Íþró was becoming increasingly aware of his own palms becoming sweaty; the entire concept of existing in the bakery was causing tendrils of anxiety to crawl up the back of his neck. Thankfully, Glanni didn’t seem to notice, but Íþró continued to uncomfortably shift in his chair, his brain begging him to just _leave_. 

He barely registered the waiter arriving with Glanni’s cakes, nor did he acknowledge whatever it was Glanni was talking about until Glanni snapped his fingers in front of his face.

“Ugh I didn’t fuckin break you, did I?” Glanni grabbed Íþró’s other hand from where it was tapping rapidly on the table, holding it steady. His actions conveyed a far gentler tone than his words suggested, and they pulled Íþró out of his own thoughts.

“I-, No I’m fine.” Íþró stumbled over his words in an effort to get them out faster, and instinctively pulled back from Glanni’s hand. Glanni rolled his eyes and picked up one of his many pastries, shoving it towards Íþró.

“Maybe your blood sugar’s dropping; eat this,” 

“No!” The pastry was so close to Íþró’s mouth that he gagged, and shot back as far as he could in his chair. Glanni tilted his head to the side, confused. Íþró sighed, and took a deep breath to calm his racing heartbeat before continuing. “I can’t- I mean, I don’t eat sugar. Even the smell of sugary things makes me feel ill” he explained, eyes darting to look at everything except Glanni and his cakes.

Glanni hummed in concentration, but thankfully removed the offending pastry from Íþró’s immediate vicinity, popping it in his mouth whole. 

“That’s weird,” Glanni said once his mouth was empty again, licking a crumb from his lip, “So what happens if you eat it?”

“I get lightheaded, heightened emotions, tingly feeling,” Íþró spoke quickly again, before his brain could catch up with the fact he’d just revealed one of his greatest weaknesses to a criminal.

“What, like you get drunk on sugar?” Glanni’s tone was lighthearted again, and if Íþró focused on it, it helped him to dispell some of his anxiety.

“I guess so.” Íþró replied, controlling his breathing as best he could.

“I can get this shit packed up as a to-go thing and we can leave if its bothering you.” Glanni beckoned the waiter as he spoke, leaving Íþró no way of declining the offer. Not that he would’ve declined it anyway, since leaving still seemed like a _really great idea_. 

One large bag full of confectionery later, they left the shop, Íþró taking a long, gratuitous breath of clean(ish) air, whilst Glanni failed to suppress a laugh. 

“Have I told you you’re ridiculous yet?” Glanni smiled, and a warmth blossomed in Íþró’s stomach.

“Probably,” he laughed back, the tension dissipating from his muscles with every step they took away from the shop. Their casual harmony was interrupted, however, when Glanni collided with a small woman in a red dress. 

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” he hissed, pushing past her, but she grabbed his wrist, Her caramel skin unnervingly warm against his own.

“I think you’re the one who needs to watch yourself, Glæpur.” She smiled slowly, then disappeared into the crowds behind her.

“Ugh whatever” He yelled back, squeezing Íþró’s hand tighter and ignoring the frown on Íþró’s face that told him to “be nice to people”; beginning the long walk back to the balloon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for comments and kudos :)
> 
> (Also yes I did just use my vague Glanni-inspired cosplay-ish outfit for the clothes he buys here, even though I doubt they sell 1950s coats in most high street shops xD)
> 
> Title from Love Like This by Kodaline


	3. There May Be Trouble in My Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one! And I promise it's actually going to start getting to the main plot soon!
> 
> Also; there's chapter titles now :)

It was just past midday when they arrived back at Íþró’s balloon, quickly locating the misplaced key, so the two were once again separate from each other.

“Lie back down.” Íþró instructed, gesturing towards the bed, and Glanni made a face.

“No, I need to wash and shave, I feel gross” He countered, Íþró sighing to himself.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt…” He rummaged through a box and retrieved a large leather water container, as well as a bar of soap, handing them both to Glanni before picking him up bridal-style (again).

“Put me down!” Glanni yelled Íþró took off across the fields, protesting the sudden assault on his person, but Íþró just laughed and ignored him. And _holy fuck_ Glanni should _not_ have looked up, because Íþró’s hat had slipped, revealing blond curls, and good god, Glanni wanted to run his hands through them, softly tangling his fingers and pulling, gently, to see him gasp and expose that wonderful neck. And then those eyes, so gorgeously blue, Glanni could drown in them. Íþró was still _smiling_ for fucks sake, so effortlessly happy in the cool countryside air.

Glanni’s stomach flipped, and he wanted to laugh and cry all at once. He was completely fucked, wasn’t he? And he needed to leave. Quickly. Before he did something stupid. And so again, he struggled to get free from Íþró’s arms, but Íþró just laughed again and slowed to a walk, nearing the riverbank. 

“Hey, stop that or I’ll throw you in!” Íþró joked, and made to do just that, stepping forward and raising him upwards, leaving Glanni clinging on out of instinct, and cursing under his breath.

“No, _you_ stop it Íþró.” He hissed.

“Stop what?” Íþró was still laughing, but then detected the anger and sadness in Glanni’s tone, and he frowned. “Glanni?”

“This! Everything-” He gestured at Íþró’s face, “Just stop it.”

“I don’t understand-” Íþró began, and Glanni groaned in frustration, shrugging the items he was holding to the ground, and tightening his arms around the shorter man’s neck. He crushed their lips together, energy fizzling through his entire body from the single point of contact. Realising Íþró hadn’t responded, he pulled back, and found the other man staring at him, astonished. Well now he’d fucked up big time. He needed to run, needed to leave, escape, _right now_. He needed to get as far away as possible, needed to-

But then Íþró’s lips were back on his own and this time they were both kissing. Glanni’s mind went blank. He grazed his teeth over Íþró’s lower lip, and felt him moan against his mouth, which caused Glanni to smirk and bite down even harder. If he hadn’t had to use both arms to hold onto Íþró’s neck, he would’ve yanked that stupid hat from Íþró’s head, but for now he settled on tangling his fingers through the hair that had fallen loose wherever his hands could reach. 

They broke apart after a minute or two, Íþró’s chin scratched from Glanni’s stubble, but he didn’t seem to mind; a wide grin stretched across his face. Glanni breathed heavily, far more so than he usually would after just a kiss, and his heart thumped in his chest.

“Put me down you idiot,” Glanni matched Íþró’s smile, and watched him blush, from his cheeks to the tips of his pointed ears. Wait. _Pointed?_ Eh, whatever. Glanni didn’t let the confused look linger on his face for more than a split second before moving on. He’d already established that the man was strange, and pointy ears weren’t exactly the weirdest thing about him. Plus they were kinda cute.

His ribs cried out in pain again as he was released from Íþró’s grasp, and he held onto his arm as he bent down to undo his boots, glad that the riverbank was covered in plants and not just mud, as he’d assumed it would be. He was not about to get these boots dirty; they were _designer_ (and $500-a-pair, or would’ve been, if he’d actually paid for them. 

He let go of Íþró to shrug off his coat, and, after a brief moment of hesitation, his turtleneck as well, though in the few seconds he’d had his eyes covered, Íþró had somehow undressed and swan dived into the river, and was currently beckoning Glanni to join him.

Rolling his eyes and cursing the opacity of the river that blocked him from seeing Íþró fully, Glanni undid his jeans and pants, and, because he was a civilised person (well, that was debatable), he chose to walk into the river rather than jump. By now Íþró had swum a fair distance away, his hat still on his head for some reason, but his goggles now covering his eyes.

 _Did he really go swimming that often that he needed to keep them on his head at all times?_ Glanni wondered, pushing himself away the bank and into a lazy backstroke in the vague direction of Íþró, who was reminding him to try not to get his bandages wet. Ignoring him, Glanni turned around to splash him in the face, laughing at Íþró‘s surprised expression. That hat was annoying him though, and he wanted it gone.

“Take that off, I want to see your hair.” He sidled up next to Íþró, grabbing what he assumed was a hand under the water, pulling the shorter man closer.

“I- I can’t.” Íþró replied, taking Glanni’s free hand in his, partially because holding hands felt nice, partially so Glanni couldn’t just steal his hat.

“Why? Something to do with that crystal thing?” 

“Uh, kind of...” He answered cryptically, and Glanni rolled his eyes (again).

“Fine!” He exclaimed dramatically, pulling them backwards against the current. “But that means you’ve got to do something else for me instead.” He leaned in to purr into Íþró‘s ear, smirking as he felt Íþró shiver beneath his hands.

“What?”

“Kiss me again.”  
\-----

That evening, as Glanni atempted to burrow deeper underneath the blankets on the bed, complaining that it was “far too fucking cold,” and repeatedly asked why the balloon didnt have any form of heating, or even a goddamn roof, Íþró busied himself cooking over a small campfire he’d built. _Technically_ he did own a small portable stove-thing, but he prefered the campfire, with the light and warmth it provided. 

He slowly twisted the fish on the skewers, allowing them to cook evenly, a small smile having settled on his face as he glanced between the dancing flames and the man lying in his bed. The river had washed away the makeup Glanni had been wearing, both the testers he’d tried out in the city, as well as whatever had remained from before his attack. It was strange, Íþró thought, how much softer and gentler he seemed without the pinky-purple eyeshadow and smudged eyeliner staining his pale skin. 

Shaking his head, Íþró forced his gaze away from Glanni. What had happened earlier had to be a mistake. Granted, he had most certainly enjoyed it, and he couldn’t say that he didn’t want it to happen again, but it wouldn’t. A small voice in the back of his head whispered that it was probably Glanni manipulating him so Íþró would go easier on him, but he shoved that voice down and away. He couldn’t bring himself to think that of Glanni. Or maybe he just hoped it came from a place of genuine emotion so he wouldn’t feel so vulnerable. 

Íþró was so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t notice Glanni had left the bed and, wrapped in a blanket, settled down on the grass next to him, until the other man poked him and said

“I think you’re burning the fish,”

With a startled “oh!”, he flipped the fish over, trying to salvage some of the non-charred parts whilst Glanni chuckled beside him. 

Íþró knew he wasn’t the best cook, but vaguely blackened fish with a few herbs and a carrot each was a new low, even for him. Thankfully for Glanni, there was still the bag of pastries (which Íþró had kidnapped and only promised to return it if Glanni ate his “real food” since “no one can survive on processed sugar alone”), but he didn’t seem bothered with it at the moment; content to just sit companionably with Íþró.

Strangely enough, Íþró found himself enjoying it too. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but maybe he’d been _lonely_? The only people he spoke to regularly were the staff at the police station, and although they exchanged pleasantries, the conversations usually ended quickly. And of course he occasionally wrote to his brothers, but they were oftentimes busy, and their replies were sporadic at best. 

Somehow, without even being aware of it, they’d shuffled closer to each other, until their shoulders were touching, and Íþró kept catching glimpses of Glanni making faces of disgust with every bite of his food. He eventually set his plate down on the grass, having eaten the fish but left the carrot.

“Come on, eat it,” Íþró picked up the offending vegetable, and held it in front of Glanni’s mouth, “go on!”

Rolling his eyes, Glanni shook his head, so Íþró tapped the carrot against his lips. His eyes widened as Glanni opened his mouth and took the entire carrot into his mouth without gagging, all without breaking eye contact. _Did he just not have a gag reflex?_ Oh wow Glanni’s plan had really worked because now he was imagining things he’s just promised himself he wouldn’t.

Pulling back, a string of saliva still connecting him to the carrot, Glanni snorted at Íþró’s startled expression. 

“I’m still not eating that” He said between laughs, but his next sentence was cut off by Íþró grabbing a handful of his shirt, crushing their lips together again. Glanni softly whined into the kiss and dropped the blanket so his hands were free to pull Íþró closer. 

Above them, the sky darkened to red around the horizon, exposing a sky full of lights, twinkling billions of miles away; and the city sparkled like fairy lights in the distance, whilst their campfire, still flickering comfortably, kept the shadows at bay, protecting them as they fell asleep together under the watchful gaze of the stars.

———  
It had been several days since Íþró had rescued Glanni, and he was still staying in Íþró’s hot air balloon, although his reluctance to be there vastly diminished after their kiss at the river – and it had only been a kiss, Íþró had made sure of it, citing that anything else would just put strain on Glanni’s injuries and possibly lead to permanent disfigurement or something, but Glanni hadn’t really been paying attention, too busy focusing on the way Íþró’s lips looked when he talked. The two of them had settled into a routine of sorts, with Glanni mainly resting during the day, occasionally adventuring out with Íþró into the surrounding area whilst he gathered berries and fruit. Never back to the city though, Íþró insisted on that.

It was strange really; Glanni had lived in cities his whole life, he knew the layout of those concrete jungles like the back of his hand. Often, weeks would pass between times when he even _saw_ trees. But he didn’t feel uncomfortable here, in the outdoors. He might have even begun to enjoy the feeling of a morning breeze across his face, or the soothing chirpings of birds that helped lull him to sleep. He definitely didn’t appreciate the way the rain turned the grass around the balloon to mud though, and refused to leave the basket the day after it had rained, much to Íþró’s amusement. 

He was aware that at some point he would have to leave, to escape before Íþró could hand him over to the police, but he found himself not wanting to. Sure, he made a fair amount of money through his cons, and could get laid whenever he wanted, but he hadn’t felt cared for in a long time. It became a daily battle in his head, his desperate attempts at convincing himself all he felt for Íþró was lust, against the warmth and happiness he felt even just being in Íþró’s presence, the tenderness of his kisses and his hands as they redressed his wounds. Emotions were never this strong for him, aside from anger or pain, and it frightened him. How was it that a man he barely knew could make him feel so vulnerable so easily?

Íþró, meanwhile, was having a ~~major~~ mild morality crisis. Technically, he was harbouring a wanted fugitive, which was illegal. He was also now romantically involved with the aforementioned wanted fugitive, and although he wasn’t entirely certain, he assumed that was probably illegal too. He was fully aware of Glanni’s crimes, not just the poisoning incident, but the countless cases of fraud, theft, impersonation, drug distribution, etc, so he should be able to say with absolute certainty that Glanni was a bad person. But he couldn’t. The man he’d come to know was snarky and rude, but also funny, and sweet, and altogether too brilliant for Íþró to consider him evil. Glanni would probably scoff if Íþró ever actually said that to him, undoubtedly considering his status as “most-wanted criminal” a hard-won prize, and- Wait.

He had been stretching in the field beside the balloon, but he quickly ran back, jumping over the side with no extra flips, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

“Glanni,” he began, sitting down on the side of the bed, where Glanni was currently pulling at a loose thread in the sheets idly, “What happened to you?” He watched as Glanni’s face paled, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position to meet Íþró’s eyes.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Glanni’s tone was serious, far from the usual playfulness it held, which worried Íþró slightly, but he shook it off. It couldn’t be anything _that_ bad, right? He nodded in affirmation, and Glanni continued.

“I have people that work for me, and one of them - or more, I don’t fucking know – got their heads turned by some sleaze who was willing to pay them more than I was. They ratted out my safe house, and probably some other important stuff as well. Then those pieces of shit broke in. I think I got a couple of them with my knife but they drugged me and roughed me up.” He gestured at his injuries with a grimace, “I guess I’m lucky you found me when you did.” Íþró frowned and contemplated his words before responding.

“Don’t you find it strange” He asked, “How this other person was able to bribe one of your own into discovering your exact location? It must’ve been someone close to you.” It was with a grim smile he watched the realisation dawn on Glanni. Someone was challenging him; they wanted him dead, and had the means to do it. And yet they weren’t on the police radar. How the hell was someone this powerful completely unknown by the authorities? Glanni growled low in his throat, coming to the same conclusions as Íþró.

“I’m gonna fucking kill every single one of those bastards.” Glanni hissed. His blood was at boiling point in his veins, fury coursing through his entire body. There was someone out there with the means to destroy him, and they were in _his_ city for fucks sake. Those same those crowded streets in which he thrived, flitting in and out of disreputable circles with ease, high on the thrill he gained from a well-executed scheme that left him richer and satisfied. 

Of course, it wasn’t long after he’d settled in any city that he’d have earnt status and power – what with his quick mind and ruthless nature, and honestly his reputation helped somewhat too - though it did mean he encountered his fair share of enemies. But none had ever come this close to usurping him. Hell, they’d infiltrated his organisation at the highest fucking level and he hadn’t even noticed. It almost frightened him. He must be getting old, losing his touch. Or maybe they really were that good. He didn’t know which scenario he disliked more. He only then noticed Íþró’s hand on his shoulder, and that he appeared to be speaking to him.

“Hey, hey, you can kill them all later, but you need to relax, you’re about to tear your stitches.” Íþró’s voice was soothing, and Glanni realised he’d been physically shaking with anger. Mimicking Íþró, he took a slow breath in, then released it, repeating over and over until the tension left his body, though the rage still seethed in the back of his mind. “Are you feeling better?” Íþró’s voice cut through the silence again, and Glanni didn’t even try to stop himself from throwing his arms around Íþró’s neck and hugging him tightly. He knew it was extremely risky to keep doing this, that it would only result in one or both of them being hurt or killed, but holding Íþró just felt _right_. It dawned on him slowly, like a winter morning sunrise, or the first flowers of spring: Íþró made him feel safe.

\-----

Between plotting and scheming how to get revenge and take down the mysterious gang that had almost killed him, Glanni had also been trying to convince Íþró to sleep with him. It should’ve been easy enough, all things considered, - they both clearly wanted it - but Íþró’s moral principles seemed to be significantly higher than his own. Hell, even with their making out, Glanni still hadn’t gotten his hands underneath that leather breastplate, (which in itself was a travesty, since he knew for a fact how well built Íþró was), and Íþró had all but refused to touch Glanni’s torso, lest he injure it further. 

But Glanni took his pleasure wherever he could find it, so as Íþró rubbed the salve into his skin daily, he leaned into the touch, savouring the feelings of Íþró’s warm, calloused hands against him, and wondering how it felt to be held down tightly by those same hands, pinning him to the mattress, fucking him-Oh! Sometimes he would overindulge in his fantasies, moans escaping his lips, and though Íþró rolled his eyes and called Glanni a drama queen, he could tell Íþró was affected by them. 

“The more you do that, the less I’m going to touch you. I’ve already told you no.” Íþró eventually snapped, during one such overindulgence, but Glanni shrugged it off as an empty threat, even though the harshness of Íþró’s tone had surprised him. 

“Fine, but you’re no fun,” Glanni rolled his eyes, letting his head fall back down onto the pillow, but as he glanced back at Íþró, the man still wasn’t smiling. That,,, wasn’t good. Íþró sighed in frustration, wiping his hands on his trousers and backflipping away, clearly irritated. Maybe, Glanni thought, he had gone a bit too far this time?

It wasn’t often that Íþróttaálfurinn used his magic, but right now he needed to get away from Glanni, and couldn’t risk the man escaping. Kissing was one thing, and could be excused as a lapse in judgement, but _sex_? He wouldn’t be allowed to keep his post, that’s for sure. But he wanted to, dear gods he wanted to, and if Glanni kept up his advances, Íþró wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to resist. 

Kneeling down a fair distance from the balloon, he pressed his palms to the ground and whispered something in elvish, weaving a ward around the balloon. Mostly his wards were designed to keep things out, but this one, well, this one would keep Glanni _in_. Thankfully since he was a human, he needn’t make the wards too strong, they’d only knock Glanni out if he tried to cross them. Happy with the ward construction, Íþró sprang back to his feet and sprinted towards the city, hoping the act of saving someone would be enough to distract him from his inner turmoil.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. The distraction _or_ the wards, somehow. Íþró had stopped a minor robbery and apprehended the criminals fairly easily - they’d been ill-prepared, and hadn’t got very far before being caught. However, due to complications at the police station, it was almost dark by the time Íþró returned to the balloon. He couldn’t sense anything as he crossed over the ward boundary, and so he assumed Glanni hadn’t tried to escape, but as he jumped into the basket, and noticed the rumpled, but empty, bed, his heart leapt into his throat. Tentatively, Íþró pressed a palm to the sheets; they were cold. Glanni had been gone for a while then. He climbed out to check the wards perimeter, walking slowly to ensure he didn’t miss any small clues, but he found none; no holes in the wards, no signs of forced exit, not even Glanni’s unconscious form lying on the ground. Glanni had simply disappeared.  
\---———-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laughs evilly* And now the fun begins...
> 
> As always, I live for comments and kudos, so if you like it (or hate it) please let me know :)
> 
> Title from Paradise by James Blunt


	4. I Broke My Middle Finger So I Can't Show You How I Feel Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said that this fic was gonna get dark? I'm sorry.  
> Also I've had this chapter ready since before Chapter 3 was uploaded, but Chapter 5 is being annoying to write, and I've been procrastinating it with other, smaller fics, (Sorry if I'm posting too much :/) But anyway, here you go! Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> PS. There will be brief summary/TW in the end notes if you don't want to read the more graphic parts (They start after the paragraph that talks about arson, and end with Ithro running into a hospital)

In retrospect, running away hadn’t been the best idea. About 20ft from the balloon he’d first noticed his blurring vision and mild nausea, so he almost turned back, but thankfully it passed not long after. What he really didn’t fucking understand though, was how Íþró had run back and to the city with such ease; Glanni had been walking for the best part of an hour now, completely ruining his boots (and his will to live), but he was barely even halfway there. 

A scowl had settled on his face a good half hour ago, and showed no signs of leaving, as he cursed everything and everyone that had led him to this situation. He embraced his anger though, as the alternative was guilt for leaving Íþró, and he was _not_ about to think about that. Íþró was literally the antithesis of everything Glanni stood for – healthy food, hard work, and stupid yellow clothing – so by all accounts, he should be glad to have left him. But the niggling voice in the back of his head repeatedly told him, in very colourful language, what a mistake it was, and how if he had any scrap of common sense he’d turn around and go right back to that damned balloon. 

Sighing repeatedly, he crushed the voice, and focused on being angry instead. Anger he was familiar with. Anger he could deal with. Anger he- Oh for fucks sake.

For some reason, the clouds had decided right now was a great time to rain, because all clouds are bastards who have it out for Glanni and want to ruin his designer shoes even more. His heels sank into the rapidly dampening ground, every step nearly breaking either his ankles or his neck. Pulling his hat down further and tugging the collar of his coat closer to his neck, he broke into a jog, detesting the exercise but tolerating it if it meant he could get to the shelter of the city faster.

Another hour or so later, looking decidedly more bedraggled, and with his ribs aching like they’d been broken all over again, Glanni slammed his palms against a half hidden door within an alleyway, old posters advertising long-closed burlesque shows covering the peeling black paintwork. Their gaudy images were familiar, but infuriating, and Glanni picked at one whilst he waited for the door to open. As soon as it began to move, he shoved it again, almost pushing it into the old woman who opened it, before slamming it behind him.

“Birna, pleasure to see you again; I’m surprised you’ve not dropped dead yet.” He growled as he stalked past her and into the darkened hallway, ignoring the murmurs of surprise from the others he stormed by as he made his way to the main room, Birna following him closely. As soon as he stopped, a sharp slap landed across his face.

“Respect your elders, Glæpur;” She snarled, her accent thick, “just because you’re the boss doesn’t mean you can’t have manners.”

He ignored the stinging sensation in his face, and gestured for her to sit at the large wooden table next to him. He’d known Birna for years, and whilst she was often rather blunt and quick to shut down anything she didn’t like, she was also one of the very few people he trusted completely. Okay, maybe not _completely_ , but he trusted her significantly more than he trusted most people. Closing the door, he slid into the chair next to her, glancing around the room once more.

“So what the actual fuck happened?” Glanni kept his face neutral; although he liked Birna, she would easily exploit any weakness he showed for her own advantage. Hell, that was probably why he liked her, he enjoyed doing the same himself. Birna laughed, a harsh, grating sound that was rather displeasing to hear.

“Someone bribed someone else to get to you, I thought you’d have figured that out by now.” Of course she was making fun of him. This _wasn’t fucking funny_. “We all thought you were dead.”

“Well _obviously_ I have. And I’m not fucking dead either.” His eyes flashed with anger, and he restrained himself from slamming his fist onto the table. Exhaling slowly to calm himself, he continued. “What I want to know is _who fucking did it_? Þórsson? Heinrik?”

He stood again, striding across the room to where he knew there was a packet of cigarettes, and he lit one, taking a long drag before realising that _holy shit that really fucking hurt_. His ribs complained loudly with the sudden expansion of his lungs, and he fought down the choking sensation in his throat. If Birna saw him coughing like an amateur he’d never hear the end of it.

“There’s a few possibilities,” she said, holding her hand out expectantly for a cigarette of her own, and Glanni rolled his eyes, before passing her the packet. “But my money’s on Kettil Kettilsson and Ylfa Ulfursdottir.” Glanni frowned, taking another, smaller, drag from his cigarette.

“Why?” 

Kettil had always been a good friend to him, and was... _surprisingly good with his hands_ , whilst Ylfa was one of his best smugglers, so it was difficult for him to think about why they’d betray him, especially since he actually paid them decent money.

“Kettilsson refuses to account for his whereabouts for the hours leading up to your abduction, and Ulfursdottir’s gone.” Birna took a long drag, then breathed the smoke out into Glanni’s face, laughing again; her gnarled hands rolling the cigarette between her fingers with practiced ease.

“Gone?”

“Hasn’t been seen in a week. Everyone’s saying she must’ve ran off with whoever did it.”

That really didn’t sound like the Ylfa he knew. But he supposed that most of his people couldn’t afford to be consistent, since being elusive and unpredictable was often necessary in their line of work. He sat again, and internally winced from the jolt that ran through his ribs; drumming his fingers on the table and pointedly ignoring the glare he received from Birna for doing so. He creased his brow in deep thought. There were a few more obvious candidates than Kettil or Ylfa, but they must’ve had alibis, otherwise Birna would’ve mentioned them. 

A few minutes of silence later, Birna pulled herself to her feet, her long ashy grey hair swaying gently as she left the room, leaving Glanni alone with his thoughts again.

\--------

That evening, once Glanni had consumed roughly 7 martinis and a gin and tonic at a local bar, _dear god he’d missed alcohol_ , he climbed up the old, creaky staircase of the safehouse, dimly aware of Birna talking to someone a few rooms away, and unlocked the door to his new bedroom. 

It smelt like mould and the curtains were covered in moth holes, but there was a bed so it would be fine. He caught himself thinking back to Íþró’s bed, and the soft cotton sheets in the cool night air, but forced himself to forget it. He wasn’t going back there, _ever_ , so he might as well stop fantasising. Plus, he’d get a better bed whenever he took on a character for his next con and weaselled his way into the swankiest hotel in the area anyway.

But as he lay on the musty pink duvet, miles away from any semblance of sleep, he half wished he'd taken Íþró's awful yellow scarf with him.

\----

The next few days were spent much as he had done before – planning robberies of grand houses, monitoring drug trading, drinking rather too much alcohol, etc. During what little time he had to spare, Glanni engaged in a little bit of petty theft to raise his spirits. Nothing too great or expensive, just a fancy cloak here, some jewellery there, ~~the same pair of sunglasses Íþró had refused to let him keep~~. He’d folded up the clothes Íþró had bought him and left them in his wardrobe, refusing to wear them.

He got the chance to speak to Kettil on his third day back. “Speak” was a bit of a stretch, since the conversation was almost entirely one sided. Birna hadn’t been joking when she said he’d refused to talk about it; it almost seemed as though the man was refusing to talk about anything at all. Glanni hadn’t gotten any further with his alibi than anyone else, despite his usual persuasive charm.

The only time Glanni got an actual response from him was when he mentioned Ylfa. At her name, Kettil stiffened in his chair, eyes going wide. After some gentle prompting, he mumbled “don’t let them get her, _please_ ” before falling silent again. 

Glanni puzzled over those words, wondering whether the mysterious “they” was the same group that wanted him dead, or someone else entirely, since Ylfa had apparently pissed off several very important people recently.

Birna had been somewhat distant towards him, but nothing struck Glanni as being odd about that; she didn’t speak to people without a purpose, and wouldn’t seek him out for some idle chatter. He’d overheard her speaking with various people over the past few days, none of whom he knew, but that, again, was normal. 

Everything seemed to be _extremely normal_ , to the point where it became actually rather unsettling, and Glanni wished something would just _happen_ , because if anything, boredom was starting to set in, and the last time he’d gotten bored, the national history museum had burnt down and caused a large panic that had disrupted business for months, so he’d prefer for that not to happen again.

\-----

Some may say it was karma, or that you should be careful what you wish for. Glanni said it was “bullshit” and “Could you stop giving me Rohypnol for fucks sake”

Honestly it was getting ridiculous; what were the chances of being kidnapped twice in two weeks? Probably pretty low. But as always, Glanni had managed to surpass all expectations, and was now duct taped to a chair in a warehouse.

When Glanni woke, and the drug-induced fog clouding his brain had lifted somewhat, he gave himself a quick once-over to assess his injuries. He presumed his right middle finger was broken, due to the numbness, and the fact it stuck out at an awkward angle that turned his stomach just to look at. There was also the sharp pain in his ribs with every breath he took, so he suspected he’d broken some more of those as well. Aside from bruising, everything else seemed to be mostly fine. (Haha, famous last words)

One of the gang members must have noticed him stirring, because the next thing he knew, the world became sideways and his head smacked against the cold concrete floor. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and a large black boot kicked him in the stomach, before looming above his head. The split second it took for Glanni to realise his arms were taped to the chair and couldn’t cover his face was all the time necessary for said boot to collide with the side of his skull, and everything went dark again.

——

By the time he woke up again, his head pounding and crusted blood down the side of his face, someone had righted the chair, and shone a bright light directly into his eyes.

“What do you fuckers even want?” He rasped, tasting blood in his mouth too. There was a hard laugh somewhere to his left.

“Mistress wants you dead. We’re just having some fun before she arrives.” A voice; deep, but clearly young, laughed. Glanni internally groaned.

“Can’t we talk about this? Whatever she’s paying you, I can double it.” He tried the nice approach, but the guffaw from the left again made him think it probably wouldn’t work.

“You can’t.” Another voice added, sneering. If he hadn’t been restrained, Glanni would’ve punched her.

“Can I have a go?” A third voice, this one from behind him, piped up, thin and reedy and altogether laughably unthreatening, until it got its approval, and cool metal sank into his bicep. Glanni cried out, the pain searing down his arm. The guy was clearly an amateur, the his knife jabbing aimlessly into his flesh, and Glanni was extremely grateful that he’d avoided any tendons, so the damage wasn’t going to be anywhere near as bad as it could’ve been.

“What’ve I fucking done to your _mistress_ to deserve this?” He spat as knife-boy took a brief respite, refusing to look at the bleeding mess that was currently his left arm. He got no response. “Motherfuckers” he muttered under his breath, just before a baseball bat collided with his chest and everything became hazy again.

Glanni couldn’t be sure how much time had passed; it could be minutes, hours, days? He didn’t black out this time, which was good for his dignity, but less so for his pain tolerance, as every last kick, punch and swing caused its own intense throbbing beneath his already bruised skin. Eventually they tired, and gave Glanni a brief respite from their blows. The smallest hushed the other two suddenly.

“Did ya hear that?” He hissed, glancing quickly around the darkened space for the rapid movement he’d spotted. The others shook their heads. “Me cousin says ya gotta look out for the elf. He’ll come and fuck you up. He got me cousin thrown in jail.”

“What’s your cousin been smoking? Elves aren’t fuckin real.” One of the others snorted, and knocked the light away from Glanni’s face as she slouched to the floor. 

Wait. Elves? Their words reached through the concussion in Glanni’s head, and he began to put 2 and 2 together. Íþró had pointy ears, _elves_ had pointy ears, _was Íþró an elf? Was Íþró going to save him?_ As much as his pride hated to admit it, he really would like to be saved right now. Embarassment was preferable to death at the hands of this mistress person. And then.

Yellow.

His eyes barely registered it, slowly adjusting to the darkness but _there it was again!_ A small smile appeared on Glanni’s bruised and beaten face as he closed his eyes and let the growing screams of his tormentors lull him into unconsciousness again. 

——-

“Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead-” Íþró’s hands trembled as he cut away the duct tape holding Glanni to the chair, his breathing shallow with slender fingers of dread wrapping around his lungs, constricting him. But he had to focus. He had to save Glanni. If he couldn't do that, then- _No. Focus_. 

There was still blood flowing from Glanni's arm, so Íþró took the scarf from around his neck, tying it around the wound as a makeshift tourniquet, staining the sunshine yellow a dark crimson. Bile rose in his throat whenever he caught a glimpse of the jagged gashes, and he forced himself to concentrate. Him being useless wouldn’t help anything.

Glanni slumped forward onto him as soon as his restraints were removed, and Íþró grunted at the sudden weight. He lifted him to his feet as gently as he was able, before scooping him up into his arms. Instinctively, he knew Glanni's injuries weren't ones he'd be able to treat in his balloon basket, so after mumbling a quiet apology to him, he broke into a sprint, jostling him as little as he was able to as he ran in the direction of the nearest hospital.

The three thugs lay unconscious in a heap on the floor, and Íþró paid them no attention as he left. Let them escape now if they could, Íþró thought, he'd find them again soon enough.

\-----

Having never really been inside a human hospital before, or rather, not for very long, Íþró wasn't entirely sure what to expect when he ran through the main entrance with Glanni still unconscious in his arms. Everything was surprisingly efficient, at least, after the initial shock had worn off the receptionist's face, and he called for emergency aid. Glanni had been whisked away on a stretcher by a crowd of people in navy scrubs, and Íþró had been taken in an opposite direction because apparently he'd been stabbed in the leg during his confrontation with the thugs, and was bleeding rather a lot.

"How did this happen?" The young doctor currently suturing his thigh asked, her hands working quickly.

"My friend, uh, Rikki, was attacked. I found him and that must've happened when I was getting him away." Íþró spoke slowly, keeping as close to the truth as possible but changing Glanni's name so he wouldn't immediately be arrested; Íþró needed to talk to him before that could happen. Breathing deeply to stay calm, he stared down at his leg, the throbbing sensation from earlier now dulled by the anaesthetics coursing through his blood. He wasn't entirely sure how that particular human medicine would work with his own elven biology, but it seemed to act the same as most other painkillers, only stronger. The doctor frowned at his words, tying the thread off and snipping it with a tiny pair of scissors.

"Would you like us to report this to the police?" She set down the suturing equipment on the metal tray beside her, and picked up some cotton gauze to dress the wound with.

"No, I-, I work for the police, I'll report it myself." His eyes flitted around the room distractedly, and he fought the impulse to bounce his leg up and down to relieve his nervous energy, since he didn't particularly want to hit the doctor in the face. The plain white walls were taunting him, and he needed to leave. Right now.

As the doctor moved back to wash her hands, he stood up (ignoring the pain shooting up his leg), and walked stiffly to the door, refusing to let himself limp. He ignored her protests that he _really shouldn't be walking on that so soon_.

"Do you know where they took my friend?" Íþró said quickly, and she shook her head.

"Probably the ICU, but I'm not sure." She adjusted her hijab before following him out of the room.

"Thank you, Doctor-, um," Íþró paused, realising he didn't know her name.

"Faheem"

"Well thank you Dr Faheem, but I'm fine now," He tugged at his hat habitually, and she pressed her lips together into a line.

"No, I'm coming with you so you don't collapse." She replied, and Íþró stared at her, confused. "Come on then, the ICU is this way." She took his arm, gently encouraging him to walk slowly, her oxfords squeaking on the linoleum floor beside him. 

Íþró followed her down a series of corridors, all of which were technically fairly spacious, but gave the illusion of them being far smaller due to the amount of people using them. His leg ached, and he found that if he focused on it, his surroundings bothered him less.

Eventually, Dr Faheem stopped outside of a ward, swiping her key card against a small metal panel and the door clicked open. She let go of his arm and pushed through, indicating Íþró should wait outside, then speaking to someone else in hushed tones. Íþró chewed at his lip, almost dreading seeing Glanni again. All he could see when he closed his eyes was the blood, the bruises, and how utterly broken Glanni had seemed as Íþró had cradled him in his arms. Dr Faheed appeared from behind the door again, breaking Íþró from his thoughts.

"You can see him now," she gave him a sympathetic smile, "he's in pretty bad shape, but Dr Ívansson is confident he'll pull through."

Relief hit Íþró like a train, and he wasted no time in following Dr Faheem through the door, racing to Glanni's bedside as fast as his leg would allow him. To his surprise, Glanni was conscious, and decidedly less bloody than the last time he had seen him, so Íþró leant down and enveloped him in a hug, tears threatening to spill down his face.

"Hey, _hey_ , ow!" Glanni yelped, and Íþró immediately pulled back, perching on the edge of the narrow bed.

"I thought I was too late this time," Íþró spoke after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, his words barely audible. Glanni smiled grimly, wincing from the effort.

"It'd take more than that to kill me." He hesitated, then reached out to grab Íþró's hand, squeezing it tightly. A choked up sob forced its way out of Íþró's throat.

"But you nearly _died_! You just _left_ and I was worried, then my crystal went off and I saw you in that warehouse and there was _blood_ and you looked so dead and I thought I was too late-" His free hand gripped the sheets beneath it tightly, and he shook with sobs. Glanni gripped his hand harder.

"Íþró I-, Íþró I'm sorry," Glanni exhaled deeply, his throat sore, but continued, "For leaving, and getting you involved in whatever the fuck this is, but," he broke off, biting his lip, “Thank you, for saving me.” The last part was almost a whisper, but Íþró heard it clearly, his tears slowing to sniffles. Between small gasps for breath, he laughed.

“That’s the only time I’ve ever heard you be polite” A smile spreading over his tear stained face.

“Don’t get used to it.” Was Glanni’s gruff reply, but a blush coloured his cheeks, and the corners of his mouth began to twitch upwards, ruining his attempt at appearing aloof.

“I wouldn’t dare.” Although tears still ran down his cheeks, the tension had left Íþró’s body; his posture relaxing, and his smile radiating nothing but happiness. He lifted Glanni’s hand and placed a soft kiss to the bruised knuckles. “But you’re going to have to work harder the next time you want to leave.” Glanni rolled his eyes (which Íþró now found oddly endearing), but broke into a smile nonetheless. 

They fell into silence again, Íþró gently stroking Glanni’s hand until he fell asleep. Dr Ívansson informed him that Glanni was on some _very_ strong painkillers that would make him rather drowsy. Íþró settled into the pale blue chair by the bed, gladly accepting a blanket from one of the nurses, and watching over Glanni before he too succumbed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Glanni gets kidnapped and beaten up, Blood mentions, injury stuff (I'm sorry I don't really know how to describe this)
> 
> Title from Poser by Weathers  
> Honestly comments and kudos give me life and encourage me to write more, so please tell me how you feel about the fic! :)


	5. A Shadow Vacant in the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I procrastinated writing this by crocheting a Glanni doll. And then a miniature Íþró doll. And I'm still not particularly happy with how this chapter turned out. But have it anyway because I don't know how to fix it xD
> 
> (Side note, if any of you care: the Glanni doll is 12" tall, and the singular most horrifying thing I've ever made. I love him.)

“Elf?”

Íþró’s eyes snapped open, immediately awake; his hands reaching to pull his hat down instinctively. Panic rose in his throat like bile, and he could barely choke out a single word.

“What?”

“Are you an elf?” Glanni was sitting on the bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin. 

“I-“ 

Glanni watched him intently, and though his tone didn’t seem to be aggressive, an icy chill rushed through Íþró's veins. Usually when people discovered his heritage, they reacted negatively. Despite claiming to respect the Huldufólk (though he suspected they didn't actually believe in their existence), oftentimes their immediate response was one of hatred or fear. He wanted Glanni to be different, but reminded himself to not get his hopes up.

“The kidnappers, they mentioned it and,” He paused to scratch his nose, “I saw your ears that day at the river.”

“Oh,” Íþró’s face coloured scarlet, and he stared down at his legs. He wanted to deny it, but Glanni already knew. And he was a terrible liar anyway.“Then yes, I am.”

“Not gonna lie, that’s kinda hot,” Glanni smirked as Íþró’s startled gaze snapped up to meet his own. Of all the responses Íþró had anticipated, _that_ was not one of them. 

"I think you're still high on those painkillers." He replied a moment too late, Glanni's smirk breaking into a laughing grin. "Go back to sleep." 

Glanni rolled his eyes, but lay back, occasionally glancing at him with those grey eyes that made Íþró's stomach flip with both anticipation and nerves.

\--------

At Glanni's insistence, Íþró had checked “Rikki” out of hospital after only two days, in spite of Dr Ívansson’s protests. The walking to the balloon had caused his leg to ache and stiffen, plus the nights in a hospital chair hadn’t really helped his back at all, so he’d fallen asleep exhausted under the stars almost as soon as he’d settled Glanni into the bed that was quickly shifting ownership from Íþró to Glanni. 

Of course this meant he shouldn't have been surprised when he awoke to Glanni rifling through his storage baskets, but nevertheless, he was. From the wincing and occasional strings of rather creative expletives, as well as the fact Glanni was still cocooned in blankets, Íþró knew he had to intervene. Certainly, Glanni would only end up accidentally injuring himself further, which was the last thing they needed. 

Jumping to his feet, despite the dull, wistful cloud of tiredness seeping through his bones, he stopped behind Glanni, tapping him on the shoulder when it became apparent the other man hadn't noticed him yet. (or rather, where he assumed Glanni’s shoulder was; it was hard to tell with all the blankets.)

Before he could speak, a wooden spoon collided with the side of his jaw, and he stumbled backwards in surprise.

"Shit, Íþró, I didn't realise it was you-" There was a wild, panicked look in Glanni's eyes as he clutched the spoon tightly, his knuckles stark white against the deep brown wood. "I just..."

"No, it's okay," Íþró reached out and removed the offending piece of cutlery from Glanni's grip, then with his free hand, he steadied Glanni's shaking palm. "It's normal to be on-edge after an experience like that." 

"No it's _not_ ," Glanni snapped, pulling his hand away, "I should be fine. I _am_ fine. Ah, fuck-" The rapid movement had aggravated his broken ribs, and he doubled over with the pain. Íþró frowned sympathetically, and found the bag of supplies Dr Ívansson had provided them with. He retrieved a bottle of morphine and a syringe, filling it up carefully. Glanni groaned as Íþró manoeuvred him to sit back into bed, but barely acknowledged the needle as it was pushed into his arm, just closing his eyes tightly in a poor imitation of sleep.

Once Glanni appeared to be calmer, Íþró stood up, walking back to the box Glanni had been searching through to replace the wooden spoon. There was a soft mumbling from behind him, and he turned to find Glanni watching him. Picking up an apple and biting down, his jaw clicking from his earlier injury, he sat back down on the bed.

"What did you say?" He asked, pulling the blankets down from where Glanni was trying to bury his face.

"Doesn't matter," Glanni replied, voice muffled from the blankets he'd immediately pulled up again. "It's just cold." Íþró stared at him incredulously; ok it was fairly chilly, but Glanni had literally every blanket Íþró owned draped over him.

"So what did you ask me?" Íþró leaned closer so his face was inches from Glanni's, a playful smile dancing on his face. "Did you want a good morning kiss?"

"What? Of course not, I'm not a child." Glanni rolled his eyes, but Íþró ignored him and pecked him on the lips. Glanni's blush was amusing to say the least, but he wiggled his uninjured arm from under the blankets and swatted Íþró away.

"Let me go to sleep, you dumb elf," he tried (and failed) to keep a smile from his face, and his insult had no malice in it.

Íþró chuckled, "You know, it's actually quite rude to refer to people by their species."

"Shut up, elf-boy,"

"You shut up, _human_ ," Íþró's laugh was clear and bright, until he stopped. "Wait-" He remembered the wards he'd set up, and how Glanni had escaped. During the few days he had to puzzle over it, he'd first assumed his magic hadn't worked correctly, but then he'd tested it, trapping a few foxes and a sheep with wards, and none of them had managed it. Of course, Glanni wasn't the same as a sheep, but it was the same principal, and usually the same strength ward was necessary for all non magical creatures. So the problem hadn't been with _him_.

Which had led him onto his next train of thought: _was Glanni human?_ It seemed like a stupid question; _obviously_ Glanni was human, Íþró would've been able to sense his magic otherwise, that is, unless Glanni's was latent, or he was unaware he possessed it... It was unusual, but not unheard of.

"What the hell do you mean, 'wait'" Glanni snorted, "You're not implying _I'm_ an elf too?"

"No, not an elf, I've seen your ears," Íþró furrowed his brow, hunching forward slightly, before pushing all thoughts of it from his mind. "Forget it, I'm being ridiculous."

" _Finally_ a statement I can get behind!" Glanni cackled, as Íþró rolled his eyes. A bad habit he must have picked up from Glanni, he supposed.

Glanni's laugh grew into a cough, and the mood suddenly darkened, Íþró hurriedly scooping Glanni up into his arms so his ribs wouldn't be shaken as much. The coughs became whimpers, and Íþró wished he could do more to ease Glanni's suffering.

Maybe he could? Surely there would be something in one of his books that described magical healing, and it wouldn't be _too difficult_ , right?

\------

Glanni stared up at the yellow expanse of balloon above him, his entire body aching behind the numb facade of relief the morphine offered. Thinking had a pleasant, fluffy feeling at the moment, but it did make it rather difficult to focus properly. Instead, random ideas would pop into his head and distract him from his previous train of thought, so even if he wanted to think about the kidnapping, or who could've done it, (which he really didn't, not yet anyway), he couldn't.

But it also meant he couldn't reflect on Íþró's words. They were stupid, obviously. Like, Glanni would _know_ if he wasn't human, _right?_ Unless- Oh, wait, he was hungry, that's what he'd been doing when Íþró so rudely interrupted him. He should probably mention food to V at some point, if he didn't want to eat _fruit_ for the foreseeable future. But also sleep seemed like a really good idea... Yes. Sleep first, then food. Good plan.

\--------

Once he was sure Glanni had fallen asleep, Íþró flipped over to the outside of the basket, where his box of books was stored, and took out several. One of them surely had to contain what he was looking for.

The first two weren't that promising: _Herbs, Plants & How to Befriend Them_, _Learning English for the Slightly-Above-Average Elf_. But the third, _Spells, Charms, & Enchantments for Moderate Learners_ seemed like it would contain the sort of magic he was after. Unfortunately, it appeared to be written in rather formal Victorian English, and Íþró had a feeling he may need to consult the second book for help in understanding it.

Flicking through the delicate pages until he found one marked "Aiding the Sick and Wounded using Magick", Íþró took out his notebook and pencil and began to make notes. His English spelling wasn't the best, so he wrote in Elvish instead, but some of the words puzzled him; what on earth was _mesmerism_? He made a note to ask Glanni about it when he woke up, and continued to read.

From what he could understand, healing magic could take many forms, from physical poultices, to charms which would rejuvenate the sick using the energy of the other, but they tended to be used only to relieve pain and to allow the other to be conscious, rather than healing. There was also the most difficult, but most effective method, which was a direct transmission of the healer's essence to combine with the essence of the patient, actively healing them, however this could be mentally exhausting for both parties.

Íþró deliberated the options for several minutes; the poultices were out of the question, most of the ingredients were too rare to find nearby, and Glanni would probably object to the smell. The charms seemed of little use either, which only left the third option. Íþró knew he was fairly competent in magic, but it appeared to be much more advanced, than anything he'd attempted before. Tearing out a blank page from the notebook, he hurriedly wrote a letter, folding it into a paper aeroplane and throwing it into the wind. He watched it until it became nothing but a pale yellow speck against the clouds, and turned back towards the book.

\-----

Glanni woke up periodically throughout the day, and every time without fail, he'd attempt to get up and Íþró would have to rush to stop him before he collapsed. He grumbled at the fish soup Íþró had made him for lunch, but ate it and begrudgingly admitted it wasn't _totally_ horrible. He complained again afterwards, when Íþró refused to kiss him because he smelt like fish, arguing that Íþró had just eaten the same soup himself, and therefore would smell of fish too, so he should stop being so damn mean and _kiss him already_ , but Íþró just laughed from his perch on the grass, and told Glanni to go back to sleep. Which he did. But he was annoyed about it.

\-------

The more Íþró read, the more the spell worried him; there was no telling how effective it would be on Glanni's injuries, not to mention the immense mental strain it would put on him. But his job was to help people, and this would help Glanni, so he'd do it. He had to. As soon as he heard back from his brother, that is. Íþró glanced over at where Glanni was sleeping again, his face occasionally twitching in pain, but otherwise he looked just as peaceful as he had done a week ago. Íþró's stomach twisted, and he forced himself to look away. 

He was distracted from the book again, an hour or so later, when something small hit the back of his head. First he assumed it was Glanni throwing things at him for light entertainment, but when he turned around, he was still fast asleep. Looking up, he recognised the familiar scarlet paper his brother favoured, and grasped the aeroplane out of the air. Unfolding it quickly, almost tearing it in his haste, his eyes flicked over the contents. Good gods, he'd forgotten how awful Ötulliálfurinn's handwriting was, and it took him a few moments to decipher the overly-slanted scrawl.

~~~~~

_Kæri bróðir,_

_So you are finally taking an interest in magic? I must say I am surprised, but I will offer you my advice. Is there a specific person you are wanting to heal, or is this just a general desire to learn?  
If it is the former, then it is best to have a clear understanding of their injuries, as this will significantly improve your chances of success. Non-magical creatures are easier to heal than us Huldufólk, as some species' magic can be hostile, even against healing spells, however such species are uncommon, and it's unlikely you'll encounter such problems, as the magic user will likely not reject the help you offer.  
However, if it is the latter, then read as much as you can before attempting anything, and start with small things; cuts, bruises, possibly fractures if you're feeling confident.  
Remember that all forms of healing magic are mentally strenuous, so please, for the love of the gods, do not attempt to heal a broken limb on your first try. Just do not. Unless you have grown especially mentally strong since we last met, then you will certainly pass out, and that won't be helpful for anyone.  
I hope you are well, and I wish you success in your endeavours._

_Alla mína ást,  
Ötulliálfurinn_

~~~~~~

Íþró folded the letter into a neat square, and set it next to his notebook, jumping to his feet. He'd been sat still for too long and his muscles longed for exercise, but his leg prevented him from doing what he really wanted to do (that is, back-flip around the entire field until his whole body shook from exhaustion), so he settled for walking (running) on his hands, then, still upside down with his legs in the air, push-ups.

Once he was sufficiently bored of those, he jumped back to his feet, and one-legged cartwheeled back to the balloon, wiping his slightly damp and muddy palms on his trousers.

Apparently his spontaneous exercise had woken Glanni, who was giving a disdainful look to Íþró's now-dirtied trousers. Which meant Íþró should probably talk to him about what he planned to do. This wasn't going to go well, was it?

\------

"You want to _what_?" Glanni cried after Íþró explained his (ludicrous) plan.

"Heal you." Íþró said again, like it was obvious and Glanni was being ridiculous. _Which he wasn't_ , by the way. It's perfectly reasonable to be confused when an _elf_ offers to _make all your injuries vanish_ using _magic_. Hell, yesterday Glanni hadn't even known magic _existed_ , for fucks sake.

"Fuck it, why not?" Glanni sighed dramatically, what was the worst that could happen? "I want to do something first though," he added.

Íþró nodded, and Glanni leant forward, grabbing the hat from Íþró's head and throwing it halfway across the balloon. The fast movement caused his injuries to cry out again, but he gritted his teeth and ignored them. Who knows, this might be the last chance he had to do this.

Before Íþró could even manage to protest though, Glanni's hand was in his hair, tugging _just so_ , and Íþró forgot what he'd even complain about, because _gods_ that felt good.  
In all honesty, he should've warned Glanni, but it had all happened so fast that it had slipped his mind, and so when Glanni's fingers grazed the tip of his ear, Íþró shuddered and _whined_ , shivers rippling down his spine.

A smirk crept onto Glanni's lips, "Ah," he murmured, and did it again. This time, at least, Íþró was more prepared, but the sensation still managed to throw him off guard, and he leaned into Glanni's touch. One more touch, though, and nothing could stop him from lunging forward to kiss that stupid smile off Glanni's face.

Ignoring the pain that shot through him from the force of it, Glanni laughed into the kiss, and pulled Íþró against him, his fingers curling tighter in Íþró's hair. He could probably stay like this for hours; the sensation of Íþró's lips against his was intoxicating. However Íþró had other ideas.

Despite his heavy breathing, and the dilation of his pupils indicating that he definitely didn't want to stop, Íþró pulled away, leaving Glanni pouting.

"Right, you should probably lie down," Íþró instructed, pushing away the desire to kiss Glanni again. Glanni obliged, reclining backwards gently whilst maintaining eye contact. Íþró picked up his notes, and scanned through them again, to ensure he definitely wouldn't make a mistake. He'd decided to start on the cut on Glanni's throat, since it wasn't too deep, and was also slightly more healed to begin with.

His hands imperceptibly quivering, he laid his palm over the dressings, closing his eyes as he exhaled deeply, and allowed his magic to flow out. His fingers tingled pleasantly, but a growing pressure had begun to push on the front of his skull. Ignoring it, he opened his eyes, vaguely aware of a strange purple-pink fog dancing just outside his immediate field of vision. But then it was gone, and Glanni was grinning up at him.

Tentatively, Íþró peeled off the bandages, eyes widening as unblemished pale skin was revealed. "It hasn't even scarred," he breathed, and Glanni's grin broke into a laugh.

"There goes my chances of getting an intimidating scar then."

Íþró rolled his eyes (ugh he should probably stop doing that; it made him look like a teenager) but couldn't hide the smile of how own that had blossomed on his face. _He'd done it! And it had worked!_

"Do you want me to do your ribs?" He asked, now confident in his abilities. Glanni cocked his head to the side, frowning a little.

"It's a big step up, a cut to broken bones, but if you're sure, then do it," he said after a moment, and Íþró moved his hands down to lightly touch Glanni's ribs, mumbling apologies when Glanni winced and shied away. He focused on the idea of knitting the bones back together, and glittering gold wisps floated from his hands into Glanni's chest. There was that pressure in the forefront of his mind again, much stronger this time and distinctly harder to ignore.

He furrowed his brow in concentration, physically straining with the effort. Then suddenly that purple fog was back, clouding his vision until he could barely see. It wasn't pleasant but it didn't actively hinder him. Until it did.

It was as though he was being smothered with poison; his skin burned, and his lungs seemed to fill with lead, the pain in his head expanding until he was sure his skull was exploding. His crystal was screaming, or maybe that was him, but he could do nothing. His desperate attempts to swat away the fog only encouraged it, constricting him further. He gasped for breath after breath, but found no oxygen. This shouldn't be happening.

_He couldn't protect himself if he didn't even know what was attacking him._

It was a brief thought, just before he collapsed to the floor, as to whether this was happening to Glanni as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo cliffhanger! (sorry :/)
> 
> Title from Never Give in - Black Veil Brides
> 
> For any of you who are interested, mesmerism is "a form of hypnotism in which volunteers were put in a trance in order that miracle cures could be administered by suggestion"
> 
> Comments and kudos brighten my day and make quarantine much less dull xD


	6. Forever Going with the Flow, but You're Friction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know this is short, and honestly not that great, but I'm uninspired and sad. I'm determined not to let this fic die though, so at least something is better than nothing, right?

Glanni was no expert in magic, but he was fairly certain Íþró shouldn't be screaming on the floor, surrounded by purple-pink smoke. Smoke that appeared to be coming from Glanni's hands no less. _Why the fuck was there demonic candyfloss swirling out of his fingertips? And what the fuck was it doing to Íþró?_

Was it magic? He must have finally lost it if he was seriously going to believe that, but in this situation, he didn't know what else it _could_ be. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, his hands tangling in the blankets in an effort to stop the smoke. His ears rang with Íþró's screams, but he focused on drawing the magic back away from Íþró, concentrating harder than he could remember doing before. After a moment, the purple edges began to waver, and Glanni gritted his teeth, determined to stop, well, whatever the fuck was happening. 

Suddenly, a flash of bright light erupted, whiting out Glanni's vision save for a few dots of shimmering gold. Weakness flooded his muscles, and he collapsed back onto the bed, the dull ache in his chest exploding, drawing soundless whimpers from his lips. His hands and arms prickled, like thousands of tiny needles, before lapsing into numbness. It took him a minute or so to realise that the screaming had stopped.

Blinking away the spots from his eyes and ignoring the worrying lack of feeling in his limbs, Glanni half-crawled forward, reaching out towards Íþró's unmoving form. The slow rise and fall of his chest helped to calm Glanni's racing heartbeat — at least he wasn't dead — but that didn't mean he was okay.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he knelt to the floor, gently pushing Íþró out of the ball he'd curled himself into so he lay flat on his back. Cursing his numb hands, he tried to be as gentle as possible, and grabbed a pillow to elevate Íþró's head. The effort of such movement began to wear on him, and he leant back for a moment to let the pain subside. As he did so, Íþró's head rolled to the side, eyes flickering open as he was seized with a violent coughing fit. Glanni froze, panic rising in his veins as Íþró convulsed, only snapping out of it when Íþró stretched his hand out towards him, eyes pleading for help.

"Hey, you just need to, uh, breathe," Glanni had no idea of what the fuck he was meant to do; he knew how to patch up a minor injury but this was way out of his league, "Like this," he demonstrated long, deep breaths, to which Íþró responded with as close to a withering look as he was able, in his current state. Realising quite how impractical his advice was, Glanni just watched as Íþró’s coughing eventually subsided, his face flushed and his breathing shaky.

“So that, uh, didn’t work,” Glanni tried, after Íþró had finally sat up and slumped against the side of the bed. Íþró glared at him, wordlessly exuding the concept of ‘ _no shit, Sherlock_ ’, or at least that’s how Glanni interpreted it. Since it was Íþró, who understood 0 cultural references and didn’t swear, it was probably something more like ‘ _duh_ ’. “Do you know why?”

Íþró nodded, and tugged at his hat absently, “You,” he gestured at Glanni, “Magic.”

Glanni stared at him incredulously. Had that purple smoke fucked up the elf’s head? There was no way he could have _magic_. He would have known if he did. 

“As if,” he laughed, a tad nervously, but Íþró shook his head.

“Get the letter,” he pointed to where he’d left it, along with his notebook, glad that his brother had written mostly in English; it’d make it easier for Glanni to understand without Íþró having to translate, and since talking hurt, that was definitely a bonus. Glanni reached up to where Íþró had left it, and fumbled with the letter, probably gaining a paper cut in the process but he couldn’t feel it so it didn’t matter. He squinted at the writing, glancing back at Íþró every few lines.

“So you’re saying that…” he trailed off, and Íþró nodded.

“Pass the notebook-” Íþró stopped as another coughing fit overcame him, and Glanni did as he was instructed, noticing his hands seemed to be trembling, and it was with difficulty that he kept a hold of the book. Once Íþró could breathe normally again, he continued, “Can you write? To Ötulliálfurinn?”

“I can’t feel my fucking arms, but sure,” Glanni sighed, looking around for the pencil, “So how do you spell that? I can’t read it properly here.”

“What?” Íþró replied after a moment, ignoring Glanni’s question, his brow creased in confusion.

“My arms? They’re numb. Can’t feel a thing.” Glanni waved them for emphasis, not noticing he’d smacked his broken finger against the bedframe until Íþró’s eyes widened in horror. “Oops.”

Íþró gestured for Glanni to hand him the book, and began writing a new letter. From where he was sat, Glanni could see Íþró wasn’t writing in English—or maybe he was, and his handwriting was just as awful as his brother’s—but he didn’t pay it much attention, since a tingling had begun in his biceps, which distracted him considerably. He glanced down, and had to double take when there was a faint pinky-purple glow emanating from his upper arms. 

“Íþró…”

“Hmm?” Íþró replied, not looking up. Glanni rolled his eyes and glancing back at his arms until Íþró finally deigned to look upon him. “Oh… Well that probably explains the numbness,” he frowned as he stared intently at Glanni, before crossing out the last line of his letter and continuing to write. 

“ _How the fuck does it explain anything? _” Glanni shook his head and closed his eyes. Maybe he could pretend this wasn’t real and that he’d just had a dodgy trip or something.__

__Íþró cleared his throat before replying “If you’re magical, then your magic is a part of you, sort of like your blood. So some specific attack or defence spells can,” he paused, trying to find the right word, “fjarlægja… I suppose it’s like they remove it from a certain area temporarily. Or at least that’s what I remember from what Ötulli told me.”_ _

__“So, I’ll be able to feel them again?” Glanni asked, a small smile growing on his face, and Íþró nodded._ _

__“Sorry about the spell though, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Íþró tore out the page, and folded it into an aeroplane as he spoke. He tossed it into the air and pulled himself to his feet, the aftereffects of Glanni’s magic finally wearing off, and he shook the stiffness out of his arms._ _

__“It’s fine, I don’t think I’d have been able to stop it if you hadn’t done it.” Glanni said, before Íþró lifted him up bridal style and set him back on the bed. Glanni’s muscles relaxed at the soft blankets, and the pain from his injuries became less noticeable. Íþró gave him a warm smile, and stroked his hair softly._ _

__“We’ll work on it, and maybe Ötulli can help you control it properly. I’m not the best teacher of magic, otherwise I’d do it.” Glanni reached for his free hand and squeezed it, trying not to hold it too tightly, even though he couldn’t really tell the amount of pressure he was using. Íþró didn’t flinch though, so he assumed it was fine. “You should probably sleep now though,” Íþró added, and bent down to kiss him. Glanni wanted him to continue, but realistically he knew Íþró was right, so he settled for the single kiss, and closed his eyes as Íþró walked away._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Treacherous by Taylor Swift
> 
> Comments and kudos hinestly inspire me to write more and at this point I need all the inspiration i can get to figure out how to get from this point back to the actual plot I had planned out


	7. Got up on the Wrong Side of Life Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait for this, I have no excuses xD Enjoy!

It didn’t take long until Íþró was back to his usual self, only a dull ache lingering in his bones to remind him of the magical attack. Glanni, however, fared not so well; he and Íþró had both agreed that attempting any more healing magic was an unnecessarily risk, and though Íþró had made some more salves for bruising and had bought some antiseptic creams from the city, as well as administering regular morphine injections, Glanni still felt, quite frankly, like shit. 

He insisted he didn’t need Íþró around all day fussing over him, that he wasn’t going to run away again because _”how the hell could I even do that with all the morphine anyway?”_ , and Íþró shouldn’t have to quit saving people just because Glanni had got himself kidnapped. Begrudgingly, Íþró had agreed, and spent most of the day in the city, but always made sure to return before sundown. 

Four days after the incident, and a day and a half after Glanni had convinced him to go back to work, Íþró jogged through the city streets. His crystal was silent, and he didn’t have anywhere in particular to be, but the exercise helped to clear his head, and the crisp morning air was welcoming against his skin. Unusually for him, he found himself glancing at the windows of the shops he passed, occasionally noticing an item or two that Glanni might like—a bottle of purple nail polish, a black and silver choker. As he slowed to a walk, he saw a pair of novelty handcuff earrings and chuckled to himself, remembering Glanni’s reaction to the handcuffs he’d used. Tugging on the end of his hat, he took a moment to think before glancing around and entering the shop. He didn’t think Glanni actually had his ears pierced, so he chose the screw back version instead. 

“These really don’t seem like your style,” the cashier laughed as they scanned the earrings through the till, and Íþró shook his head.

“They’re not for me, they’re for my-” he faltered, unsure how to refer to his and Glanni’s relationship, but the cashier just smiled knowingly.

“Sure, would you like me to gift wrap it then?” They gestured towards the stack of tissue paper next to them, and Íþró nodded, choosing purple when they asked which colour he wanted. “Good choice,” they grinned, and Íþró only then noticed that they had purple hair. 

As they handed him the neatly wrapped box, tied up with a velvet ribbon, his crystal began to ring. He gave the cashier an apologetic smile, shoving the box into his pocket and leaving several coins on the counter before dashing out of the shop. The cashier just rolled their eyes and slid the coins into the till as they watched Íþró backflip down the street. Sure, he seemed weird, but he was the nice sort of weird, and hey, doing that many backflips in a row was _þokkalega cool_.

\------

Lying in bed, staring up at the yellow expanse of Íþró’s balloon, and pleasantly numb with morphine, Glanni had to admit he was bored. Really bored. He couldn’t walk about much, and Íþró wasn’t here to talk to, and he wondered if maybe it had been too nice of him to suggest that Íþró should go back to work. There were only so many shapes he could convince himself the clouds were making, and only so many hours he could sleep before his insomnia pushed through the sleepiness the morphine gave him, so restlessness plagued him. There wasn’t even food he could eat, since all the damned elf seemed to own was fruits and fish, and Glanni wouldn’t be caught dead eating that of his own free will.

So about an hour after Íþró had left, Glanni dragged himself to his feet and decided that going through that weird box where Íþró kept his books was a good idea. Climbing out of the basket was… _a challenge_ , to say the least, and resulted in him realising he hadn’t got his shoes on just a second too late, and his socks became uncomfortably moist from the dewy grass. Swearing loudly, he sat back on the edge of the basket and swung his legs as he opened the box, reaching in to grab a book from the middle. 

The title was in a language Glanni didn’t know so he tossed it back into the box and took another. This time it was in English, and he frowned as he read the cover. _Identifying Magical Creatures & Revealing their Disguises_. He flicked it open to the first page, which was next to a hand-painted illustration of what Glanni would’ve called a gremlin, but was, according to the italicised script beneath it, a changeling. Well, it didn’t seem too dull, and it was better than doing nothing, so he climbed back into bed, pulling the blankets tightly around him and resting the book on top of them. 

He chewed thoughtfully on his lip as he read, occasionally frowning at some strange detail, but as he reached about the halfway point, his eyes widened in surprise. Folding down the corner of the page to remind himself to talk to Íþró about it later (and ignoring the fact that Íþró would probably be annoyed for him damaging one of his “priceless old books”) he flipped to the next page, suddenly far more engrossed in the book than he had been before.

However before long, he’d clambered out of bed again and stumbled over to the box, searching this time for a specific kind of book. When he eventually found one, he grinned to himself and laid it down on the floor of the basket, scanning through the contents page until he found what he was looking for. If he could manage this before Íþró came back, then he could prove he wasn’t inept, and he could train himself. Reading through the instructions once more, he focused intently on his hand, and slowly, smoke began to rise.

\-------

Íþró, meanwhile, was having a rather enjoyable time apprehending criminals. They’d gotten bolder during his short time away, and within an hour he’d rounded up three petty thieves and a conman pretending to be a beggar. They all complained loudly about being handcuffed together on the walk to the police station, and one tried (unsuccessfully) to run away, but just caused the rest to fall to the ground in a heap. The other three glared daggers at him for the rest of the journey, and Íþró had to fight to keep from chuckling. However, as he stopped to talk to PC Danvers, who was one of the few police offices he actually spoke to, and may even consider to be a friend (in a loose sense of the word, since he didn’t think she actually liked him that much), a few streets away from the station, his crystal rang again. Apologetically he handed the bunch of hooligans over to her and, after a brief summary of how they’d been caught, sprinted away. 

“Every goddamn time we talk you do this!” She yelled after him, “Just think of the paperwork you’re causing!” But he was too far away to hear, and she rolled her eyes, dragging the gaggle of hoodlums behind her.

\------

This was… weird. Usually the crystal projected a kind of image or feeling into Íþró’s head that told him what and where the danger was, but this was different. He knew there was trouble, and it was near the balloon, but he couldn’t discern who it was, or what was happening, and that terrified him. The sense of urgency that overtook him wasn’t unlike that when he first met Glanni, though he couldn’t tell if that was because the situation was as dire, or if he just felt protective. Realistically, it was probably the latter, but the fact that someone clearly wanted to hurt Glanni caused the niggling voice in the back of his head that said it was the former to scream a little louder than usual.

He made it out of the city in record time, charging through the fields until the sight before him made him stop in his tracks; the field where he had left the balloon—and, by extension, Glanni—was now shrouded in thick, purple smoke. He tentatively reached his hand into it, relieved that it only tingled this time, not burning him as it had before, before breaking into a run, calling out Glanni’s name in the vague direction of where he remembered the balloon being.

\--------

Ah shit. Glanni had hoped he could’ve got the whole “magic smoke stuff” back under control before Íþró came back from the city, but apparently a half-day of crime fighting was enough for him, and now he was here to berate Glanni for fucking up the balloon, the field, the surrounding woodland, etc. It wasn’t even his _fault_ , really, that the small fire he’d started in his palm had exploded and lit the grass on fire. He hadn’t _meant_ to sneeze, and how was he to know that it was the magical equivalent of being zapped with lightning? 

“I’m over here,” he eventually shouted back, after Íþró had yelled his name for over a minute. Sure, it was nice to hear it, but he would’ve preferred it to be under different circumstances. Plus he didn’t want Íþró to get _too_ anxious, or annoyed, since then he’d be grumpy, and Glanni would have to deal with that. It took Íþró another few minutes to find him, but once he did, he calmed down considerably.

“You’re not hurt?” Íþró asked as he got close enough that they could see each other, running his hands gently over Glanni’s arms.

“No more than usual,” he replied, “And you might want to watch where you’re standing, there’s some stupidly old and probably expensive book lying around here somewhere.” At least he had the decency to look slightly guilty about that.

“What? Oh gods Glanni, you didn’t try and teach yourself magic did you?” Íþró seemed somewhere between exasperation and sympathy, which was a lot different from what Glanni had expected, though he almost wished Íþró had been angry, at least he knew how to respond to that; now all he felt like doing was apologising, and he _never_ apologised. Was he seriously going soft from spending two weeks with Íþró? Ludicrous.

“It was going well, then I sneezed and then…” he trailed off, “I can fix it.” He omitted the word ‘probably’ from the end of that statement—having confidence in his abilities would only make them better, right? Íþró didn’t look too sure, and honestly Glanni didn’t blame him. Though he still tried to convince himself that it was Íþró’s fault, him livinf in the middle of nowhere and forcing Glanni to be outside so much had obviously set off his allergies. The fact that it was autumn, and therefore his allergies shouldn’t have been a problem was irrelevant.

“I think I should take the balloon up and land it somewhere else,” Íþró said, ignoring him. He let go of Glanni’s arms and began to ready the balloon for flight. 

“Don’t-!” Glanni found himself yelling before he even had time to think about it, and Íþró stopped, his hand holding the cord to ignite the balloon. “I’m not what you’d call the biggest fan of heights…” he added, after Íþró’s quizzical look.

“Then sit down and don’t look over the side.” There was a no-nonsense tone to his voice, and it made Glanni want to do the exact opposite—authority figures pissed him off—but the only person that’d affect was himself, and since he didn’t particularly want a hit of nauseous vertigo he did as instructed; curling up against the side of the bed and ignoring the throbbing pain down his arms.

It was a testament to Íþró’s skill that he managed to get the balloon off the ground and above the smoky clouds with relative ease, but Glanni couldn’t give less of a shit about that. He wouldn’t say that he was _scared_ of heights, but he definitely preferred to be on solid ground. Preferred by any means necessary. Except, apparently, if Íþró told him not to. Goddamnit.

\-----

Once Íþró landed the balloon a few fields over, the smoke had already started to dissipate, and he hoped that maybe they wouldn’t even have to do anything before it went completely. They were far enough away from the city that most people probably wouldn’t notice, and the ones that did hopefully just wouldn’t care. He should probably cast a glamour just in case though, and he hopped out of the balloon and placed his hands in the grass—most magical folk didn’t feel the need to cast spells this way, but Íþró preferred it, since nature invigorated him and strengthened his magic. It was only a weak glamour, designed more to detract attention away from it than to conceal anything, but since it was such a large area it still took a lot of energy, and once it was done he actually opened the basket’s door to go back in rather than jumping like usual.

As he leant back against the wall, using one of his storage boxes as a chair he remembered the gift in his pocket, and took it out, hoping it hadn’t been damaged during the day’s events. Glanni noticed it immediately, and Íþró tossed it over, remembering a split second too late that Glanni’s injuries would probably prevent his from catching it. He was glad that the gift was light as it hit Glanni’s torso, despite his attempts to catch it, and Glanni glared at him before tugging at the ribbon and ripping the paper off, revealing a small box. Internally, Íþró was second guessing himself, would Glanni even like them? He certainly had eclectic style, but he’d criticised Íþró’s sense of style before now… He was removed from his thoughts only a moment later though by Glanni’s loud laughter.

“Is this a sign you still want to lock me up?” Glanni said suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows, and if Íþró had been sitting close enough he would’ve swatted him with a pillow, but he settled for an eye roll instead. “ _Fine_ ,” Glanni relented, and screwed them in place. “How do I look?” He batted his eyes and posed.

“At the risk of inflating your ego, you look good,” Íþró smiled warmly, standing a walking to sit next to him. Glanni seemed to bask in the compliment.

“But I always look good,” he smirked, and this time Íþró did reach behind him to grab a pillow and made to (gently) smack Glanni with it, but he ducked out of the way, darting forward when Íþró tried to swing again and kissing him hard. During the few moments of surprise, Íþró loosened his grip on the pillow and Glanni snatched it, pulling away with a triumphant grin. Before Íþró could even react, the pillow hit him square in the face, and if that was how Glanni was going to be? Well two could play at that game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Runaway by Avril Lavigne  
> Kudos and comments brighten my day :D
> 
> Also the purple-haired cashier is based on this person I met briefly in Iceland so if theres the tiny chance you're reading this... Sorry? XD


	8. The Stars are Falling from the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow sorry for the long wait, I've been kinda busy so I've not been able to write as frequently this week. But here it is! Chapter 8! And its probably longer than the last two chapters combined oops. Also guess who finally started learning Icelandic! I apologise if any of it is mistranslated xD Anyway, enjoy the chapter :D

As it turned out, pillow fighting with a severely injured man wasn’t quite the fun activity either of them had expected, and resulted in Glanni clutching his ribs and howling with something between pain and laughter. Íþróttaálfurinn rolled his eyes as he reached for the morphine.

“Flón,” he laughed to himself under his breath as he injected the painkiller into Glanni’s arm. Glanni raised his eyebrow, demanding a translation, but Íþró shook his head. “Skóffín.” Glanni shot him a withering look, to which Íþró returned an innocent smile. “It’s not _my_ fault you’re such a skúrkur!”

“And it’s not _my_ fault I don’t speak your weird elf language,” Glanni stretched out to get more comfortable as the morphine took hold, though kept his gaze on Íþró. 

“Maybe I could teach you?” Íþró already knew the answer before Glanni even shook his head, and he took one of the pillows they’d fought with and tucked it under Glanni so he could be more comfortable.

“I think I’m better off not knowing what a ‘skoor-cur’ is,” he smirked, “Though I assume it’s a compliment.” 

Íþró chuckled, “It depends, though you certainly are one, Glanni minn,”

“If you’re not going to speak English I’m going to sleep,” Glanni grumbled, tugging a blanket towards himself. Íþró grabbed the other end playfully, instigating a tug-of-war that Glanni was _not_ about to lose after his defeat in the pillow fight. Although he was at a disadvantage with only one usable arm, he was still able to match Íþró, even though he seriously suspected that Íþró was letting him win, since he’d experienced first-hand quite how strong those biceps were… No! Letting Íþró win based on his attractiveness alone was out of the question! With one unexpected tug, he managed to yoink the blanket towards himself, with Íþró still attached, and suddenly he had a large mass of elf lying atop him. Oh. Well… This wasn’t an unwelcome development. The determined grin on his face sliding into a smirk, he let go of the blanket and wrapped his arms around Íþró’s neck, leaning to press their foreheads together. “Much better than a blanket, and warmer too,” he murmured, watching the blush spread over Íþró’s cheeks.

“Glanni I-“

“No I’m not trying to try and seduce you again you idiot, I do remember what happened the _last_ time I did that,” he rolled his eyes again, and briefly pressed his lips to Íþró’s, “just this is nice.” 

“Who knew the mighty Glanni Glæpur was secretly a cuddler?” Íþró grinned, and now it was Glanni’s turn to blush.

“Shut up, it’s not as if you’re not enjoying it too,” he replied, failing to hide the red in his cheeks, “Or is it just an elf thing?” 

Íþró bit his lip, “Sort of? Not really?”

“Wow, how cryptic,”

“I mean, for me and my brothers it is? But for most elves definitely not.” Glanni didn’t reply, clearly waiting for an explanation. Íþró sighed and continued, “Some Elves, especially the older ones, can be a bit…” he paused, mumbling something under his breath, “a bit uptight.” He frowned as Glanni snorted.

“Says the one who won’t fuck me because it’s immoral or whatever,” he smirked, and Íþró shut him up with another kiss, nipping at his bottom lip until Glanni squirmed beneath him.

“It’s more to do with it being illegal to, um, do it with a wanted criminal than prudishness,” Íþró said with a giggle as he pulled back.

“Go on, say it.”

“What?”

“Say it, say fuck,” Glanni smirked again, “do it.” Íþró shook his head, and Glanni batted his eyes innocently, “For me?”

“Farðu til helvítis,” Íþró bumped their noses together with every word, before leaning back to sit up. Glanni scowled at the loss of contact but didn’t have the energy to move.

“What was that? You can’t keep saying things I can’t understand, it’s rude, and isn’t that against your elf code or something?” Glanni complained as Íþró chuckled and sprang to his feet, flipping backwards into a handstand, much to Glanni’s annoyance.

“I’ll get you a dictionary,” he winked, and Glanni rolled his eyes for what felt like the millionth time. If he kept hanging around Íþró, his eyes would probably fall out—the amount of ridiculous crap that came from the stupidly handsome elf’s stupidly pretty mouth meant his daily eye-rolling was up 300%. He took the forgotten blanket and wrapped himself in it, wriggling to get comfy before Íþró bounced back into view, book in hand, and Glanni barely stopped another eye roll, settling for a bored look instead. Íþró held out the book with a grin; it was old, and leather bound, with scuffed corners and several scraps of paper sticking out from the side. Glancing between Íþró and the book, Glanni flipped it open, the morphine making it a bit difficult to focus on the words. As Glanni read, Íþró glanced back at the smoke cloud, which had dissipated further, and relaxed; the afternoon sun shone through it, creating a soft purple glow over the area. As uncontrolled and dangerous as it was, Íþró had to admit that Glanni’s magic was truly beautiful, and he could only imagine what it’d be like once he could use it properly… After only a moment, though, he was drawn from his daydream by Glanni butchering his native language, and he turned back around as Glanni spoke.

“Drull-uh-deli” Glanni stumbled over the words and Íþró fought back a laugh, too amused to be offended, and Glanni glared at him.

“It’s more ‘ _druh-tl_ uh-del-ih’” he tried and failed to keep a straight face as Glanni growled, “As in, ‘Þú ert drulludeli’!” He caught the book with one hand as Glanni threw it at him and chuckled, glad there weren’t any other possible projectiles within Glanni’s immediate reach. Setting the book down on the nearest box, something hit the back of his head, and at first he assumed he’d missed something that Glanni could throw, but it hit him again, like someone was impatiently tapping. As he turned to see what it was, a small red paper aeroplane poked him on the nose. He sighed as Glanni laughed at his misfortune, and grabbed the offending stationary out of the air, flattening it out so he could read it. As he did, a smile stretched over his features.

“What? You win some elf award? What’s got you so happy?” Glanni said grouchily, not moving from his new, comfortable position despite his curiosity.

“Ötulli’s coming!” Íþró handed the letter over, frowning when Glanni immediately shoved it back to him.

“Great, now I’ll have to deal with two hyperactive elves,” he groaned, rolling his eyes upon noticing the confusion on Íþró’s face but elaborating regardless. “Aside from that awful handwriting, it’s not in English.” Íþró glanced back at the paper and realised his mistake. 

As if on cue, a red _flying contraption_ appeared over the horizon, large crimson wings over a seemingly regularly sized bicycle, with a wicker basket behind it scampering through the sky. As the pedals turned, the wings flapped, and Glanni’s stomach turned; it looked horrifically unstable and - _holy shit the man piloting_ (riding?) _that damned thing was waving??_ Glanni couldn’t look anymore, so he just watched Íþró’s excited bouncing as the _ridiculous flying machine_ landed close by. 

“Ötulli!” Íþró flipped out of the basket to greet the blur that ran across the field. Once the blur ceased being blurry and became a person, Glanni took in the entirety of that fashion disaster. The navy shirt was a good start, but with _those_ lime green trousers? And were _ridiculous hats_ a family thing or did _none of them have a sense of style?_ Glanni nearly gagged in horror. 

“Íþró!” Another man appeared from the basket of the flying machine and Glanni covered his face with his hands. There were _three_ of them?? 

Somehow Íþró’s smile widened even further at the sight of another brother. “Snúa!” he cried as another blur hurtled towards him, almost bowling him over with a hug. “Come over to the balloon, I should have enough sportscandy for you both!” he grinned as he cartwheeled (one legged still) back, followed by the others, somehow managing to open a bag of apples as he spun into the basket, and launched them at his brothers, who caught them with ease. 

“Glanni, these are two of my brothers, Ötulli and Snúa!” Íþró gestured to each in turn, both currently crunching apples far too loudly for Glanni’s tastes, and he immediately mentally labelled them as Not Blue, and Blue. “Ötulli, Snúa, this is Glanni!” then, to Not Blue he added “he’s the one I told you about.” Glanni harrumphed and sat up, taking in the sight of the two brothers. Blue shared Íþró’s penchant for a stupid moustache, and colour co-ordinated clothing, but he seemed more hi-tech, with electronic armbands, and the crystal casing on his chest. Not Blue, however, was the opposite; he somehow managed to look even less well-adjusted to society than Íþró—that facial hair was atrocious, and his stance was almost threatening… Not that Glanni felt threatened, he was just tired. Unfortunately the three elves were anything but.

“So Glanni, Ötulli told me you’ve got magic!” Blue hopped over and sat next to Glanni with a cheery smile, “I’m guessing that’s your fault,” he pointed to the smoky field and Glanni glared at him. Blue was undeterred however, and continued excitedly chatting, occasionally holding out his hand to demonstrate some childish magic trick that usually involved manipulating the magic smoke into an animal. He conjured up a tiny dog, which Glanni thought was a fitting choice, before closing his hands around it and blowing gently. Glanni frowned as he watched, wondering if Blue had just crushed his magic dog to death. Admittedly, Glanni thought it’d be cool if he had, since it’d prove not all the elves were as nice as they claimed to be, but his hopes were dashed when Blue giggled, opening his hands as the dog began to move, chasing its tail on Blue’s palm. Bored again, Glanni lost interest, and zoned out of the conversation, occasionally glancing over to where Íþró and Not Blue were animatedly discussing something in Elvish. Maybe his staring was obvious, or maybe Blue was more perceptive than Glanni had accounted for, but Blue stopped talking and gave him a pointed look. “So, you and Íþró..?” Glanni smirked. _This_ was a conversation topic he could get behind.

“He got pretty damn lucky, I know,” He turned to Blue, who stifled a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he giggled.

“How did you two meet?” Blue asked, appearing to be genuinely interested.

“ _He_ saved me from being murdered, _I_ saw him shirtless, things happened from there,” Glanni’s smirk grew as Blue laughed, “He won’t sleep with me though since its _illegal_ apparently,” he signed dramatically.

“Being gay isn’t illegal,” Blue frowned, misconstruing Glanni’s meaning.

“ _No_ , it’s because I’m a _wanted criminal_ , not because I’m a _man_ ,” he rolled his eyes, had _Glanni Glæpur_ really been forgotten by everyone already?

“What?!”

“I’m Glanni goddamn Glæpur for fucks sake,” he groaned, “Don’t act so surprised.”

“Oh, I can see why the council might not like that…” was Blue’s only reply, and Glanni was glad that at least his name was recognisable.

“I know someone like you, back in my town,” Blue said after a few minutes later, his voice taking on a far more wistful tone as he spoke, “His name’s Robbie, and he’s the town villain, so technically he’s my nemesis, but he’s not _really_ mean. He’s got a similar attitude to you, and I always try and be nice to him, but he doesn’t really like me…”

“I wonder why,” Glanni replied, uninterested in the strange elf’s obvious crush.

“So do I!” Glanni’s sarcasm had either been ignored, or gone way over his head, “I always try and involve him in the town activities and say hi if I see him, but he always pretends he didn’t see me, or tries to chase me out of town.” Blue’s smile dropped, and even the ends of his moustache seemed to droop. Glanni panicked, he didn’t know how to deal with sad elves!

“Uh, find out what he likes and do that for him. Or with him.” Usually his relationship advice consisted of ‘be sexy so they want to fuck you’ but that didn’t seem appropriate in this situation so he improvised. Blue looked back up to him and gave him a small smile.

“Thanks, I’ll try that,” he chuckled a little, “I can see why Íþró likes you,”

Glanni had no idea how to respond, so he didn’t; instead he pulled the blanket up and lay back down, clearly ending the conversation. He’d closed his eyes, but he felt Blue stand up and join his brothers. Glanni swore he heard his name mentioned a few times, and he knew he should probably be suspicious of their plans, but his earlier magic usage had drained him, and he ached all over, so he burrowed into the blankets, falling into a dreamless sleep.

Íþró was exceedingly happy that Ötulli had brought Snúa with him, he and Snúa were the closest in age, Íþró not even a year older, and they’d always been good friends. When they were younger they’d usually be mistaken for twins. As they’d aged, their features had stayed fairly similar, but there were more differences now, namely Íþró’s extra inch and a half in height that he often teased Snúa about when they met up. His relationship with Ötulli was different, though, and to Íþró it seemed as though there was more than the 5 year age difference between them, as when their parents had gone, Ötulli had been the one to look out for his younger siblings. Íþró knew that his brother could sometimes be seen as threatening or forceful, but it was never from a place of malice, and, just like Íþró and Snúa, all he wanted to do was help people. Even when those people happened to be wanted for over 40 different crimes. And those where just the ones that could be proven.

“Íþró, you said in your letter that his magic is strong, but he wasn’t even aware of it,” Íþró nodded as Ötulli spoke, “Do you have any idea what species he might be?”

“He says he’s human, so if he’s anything else he’s not aware of it,” Íþró replied, “But I suspect that may be the case,”

“Are you sure? He could be lying,” Snúa asked, having just joined them. Íþró nodded again.

“I trust him.”

“Is that wise?” Ötulli frowned, worrying that his brother was being naïve about the criminal, but Íþró shot him a look that quelled those thoughts. “How did he cause… that?” he pointed to the smoky field.

“I was in the city, and he used one of my spell books,” Íþró picked up the book Glanni had used, “Glanni? Which one of these did you-” He stopped as he realised Glanni was sleeping, an affectionate smile dancing over his face. Snúa glanced at Ötulli knowingly, and the older elf shook his head, but chuckled to himself regardless.

“You left him here? Alone?” Snúa asked once Íþró had turned back to them.

“He told me to, plus I couldn’t neglect my duties in town for any longer. I put up defensive wards around the balloon though, so he’d be safe.”

“Not containment wards?” Ötulli frowned and Íþró shook his head.

“No, he broke through them the last time I used them.” His brothers stared at him incredulously, “It should’ve knocked him out cold but he escaped just fine. That’s another reason why I’m sure his magic is strong; I hadn’t told him I put them up, so he couldn’t have consciously used magic to get through them,” he glanced towards Glanni as he spoke, anxiety simmering in his chest though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.

“When he wakes up we can ask him,” Ötulli took another bite from his apple and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know about you, but I need to stretch my legs after flying the ship. Are you up for some football?” His brothers both grinned in response, Íþró opening a storage box to reveal several balls, and he grabbed one, tossing it to Snúa, who had already hopped out of the basket with Ötulli, and followed them out onto the grass.

\------

When Glanni woke, it was to the shouts and cheering of the three elves who were running around the field faster than should technically be possible. Sitting up and leaning over the edge of the basket, he lazily watched them, his eyes mainly lingering on Íþró, whose hat had fallen off at some point, and allowed the sun to illuminate his hair with golden light. Glanni instantly regretted not being able to touch it at that exact moment. One of the other two must have noticed Glanni, and shouted something to Íþró, who turned around and backflipped to the balloon, greeting Glanni with a smile and a quick kiss. Glanni pouted when he pulled away, and Íþró chuckled, stroking Glanni’s cheek gently. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, and Glanni shrugged. “Ötulli and Snúa want to ask you a few questions, if that’s ok?”

“Depends on the questions,” Glanni replied in a bored tone, but leant into Íþró’s touch. Íþró shook his head bemusedly before continuing.

“And Ötulli said he can have a go at healing you, if you want.” That certainly woke Glanni up completely. “He’s far more skilled than I am, and now we know you have magic, he can prepare himself for that and ensure no one gets hurt.” Glanni still wasn’t convinced, but if Íþró trusted Not Blue’s abilities then he guessed he should too. 

“Fine. But if he nearly kills himself like you did then you’re not allowed to blame me,” he eventually agreed, and Íþró chuckled, leaning in for another kiss.

“Of course,” he whispered before Glanni deepened the kiss and (finally!) tangled one hand into Íþró’s hair, tugging lightly. He smirked as Íþró groaned and nipped at his lower lip, before someone clearing their throat behind them caused Íþró to quite literally jump backwards, his face flushed from his cheeks to the tips of his ears with embarrassment at being caught. Glanni, meanwhile, glared at the offending cougher for having interrupted them.

“If you two are finished, I can start healing you,” Ötulli offered, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards as Íþró deliberately avoided his gaze. Glanni rolled his eyes, but relented, and lay back down so Ötulli could do whatever it was he was going to do. “Drink this.” He handed over a small wooden canister that had hung about his belt before, and Glanni eyed it suspiciously. “It’s to relax you.”

Glanni took a hesitant sip and made a face. “This tastes like shitty beer,” he complained.

“Who says it’s not?”

“Touché,” Glanni replied, and drank the rest in one gulp, disliking the taste even more the second time. A moment later though, his limbs began to feel heavy, like the sensation of having just had an intense massage, and his eyes fluttered shut, his senses dulled. He was only vaguely aware of two warm hands being placed on his chest, and a strange tingling sensation radiating out through his body before his mind succumbed to the welcoming nothingness.

This time when he awoke, it was to a mild aching throughout his body, but as he inhaled, he found he could breathe deeply without the shark spikes of pain that had plagued him for the past weeks. Had Not Blue’s plan really worked? Reaching upwards to rub his eyes, he could bend _both_ of his arms! One by one, he checked each of his injuries, and found them gone without a trace. Hell, even the aching was already beginning to become less noticeable! Sitting up, he looked around for Íþró, who was helping Snúa with a no handed cartwheel, and called out to him.

“What’s wrong?” Íþró said concernedly as he jogged over.

“Nothing! Your brother’s magic worked! And that means I can finally do _this_!” He looped his arms around Íþró’s neck and then jumped up to wrap his legs around Íþró’s waist. Íþró’s hands instinctively went to support him, and before Íþró could think about it, he’d grabbed Glanni’s ass. Oops. Smirking again, Glanni kissed him, before moving down to bite and kiss at Íþró’s neck.

“Glanni, ah! My brothers are literally – Oh! – right over there,” he managed to say, holding back the moans that threatened to escape his lips.

“So?”

“ _You_ may be an exhibitionist, but _I_ am not.” He glared at Glanni, who pouted and batted his eyes.

“Get a room!” Came a shout from outside the basket, and Íþró cringed. Did Snúa really need to embarrass him like this?

“We would, but _someone_ is too much of a prude!” Glanni yelled back, gesturing dramatically at Íþró as he did so, and Íþró wanted nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow him. He did _not_ want to have his brothers discussing his sex life!

“I’ve already told you I’m not a prude,” he countered, “The reason I’m not going to fuck you is because if I did, the council wouldn’t like it.” 

Glanni audibly gasped. “You said fuck!” He cried gleefully and Íþró rolled his eyes. Of course that was the part Glanni would focus in on.

“We won’t tell the council if you don’t,” Snúa added with a wink, he and Ötulli having made their way over to the balloon at some point during the conversation.

“Megi tröll hafa þína vini.”

Snúa burst out laughing at his words, and tugged on Ötulli’s arm. “Let’s leave these turtildúfur alone shall we?” He grinned at his older brother before winking at Íþró. “You two have a great evening!” 

Once they’d flipped their way back towards their ship, Glanni turned back to Íþró. “I think I’m beginning to like them,” he said with a grin.

“Of course you are,” Íþró groaned, and dropped Glanni back onto the bed. Or he would’ve done, if Glanni wasn’t still clinging to him like a limpet. “Do you mind?” He raised his eyebrows, but Glanni just stared innocently back.

“No, not at all,” he smiled infuriatingly again. 

“Fine.” Without warning, Íþró jumped onto the bed, almost pinning Glanni beneath him. “You ready to let go yet?”

“Definitely not,” Glanni purred

“Well I am!” Íþró wriggled himself out of Glanni’s grip and jumped to his feet, somersaulting off the bed, and laughing at the irritated expression on Glanni’s face.

“Get back here you oaf!” Glanni growled, and Íþró complied, flipping back onto the bed and kissing him softly. He gently traced his hands down the sides of Glanni’s newly healed ribs and felt him shiver at the touch, even through his clothing. Glanni stared up at him, his grey eyes wide with dilated pupils, and his dark hair falling over his forehead, and for a moment, Íþró’s breath caught in his throat.

“Beautiful,” Íþró whispered, barely audible, reaching one hand up to stroke the line of Glanni’s cheekbone.

“Says the one who looks like fucking Adonis,” 

“My Greek mythology isn’t so good, but doesn’t that make you Aphrodite?” He said with a wink, and Glanni froze. 

“You smooth motherfucker.” He surged back up to kiss him, and this time, Íþró didn’t push him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the translations for the Icelandic stuff! (wow i really did flex my new understanding of Icelandic cursing in this chapter oop)
> 
> Flón - fool/idiot  
> Skóffín - cur  
> Skúrkur - villain  
> Farðu til helvítis - go to hell/fuck off  
> Drulludeli - piece of shit  
> Megi tröll hafa þína vini - may the trolls steal your friends (kinda has the same impact as 'fuck you too' apparently)
> 
> Also Snúaálfurinn is Sportacus but I didn't think Sportacus fit with the naming system so I changed it (Snúa means flip, so he's Flippy Elf) and Ötulliálfurinn is Áfram Latibær Íþró (According to google translate Ötulli means energetic if that's of any relevance to anyone xD)
> 
> And minor Sportarobbie cameo! I couldn't help myself I'm sorry
> 
> Aaand if you're not familiar with the Adonis myth (its lowkey kinda fucked up if you read about it, but whatever) the gist is that Aphrodite and Adonis were together and hot so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Comments and Kudos make me more inspired! And I need inspiration tbh
> 
> Title from Shalott by Emilie Autumn


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